


I still believe in the phrases that we breathe

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The press is relentless, Cristiano is "sad," and it's only the beginning of the season, but they're already spiraling into disaster. Mesut and Fábio decide to settle their differences long enough to keep the team from falling apart.</p><p>Pre-slash and slash. Loosely based off a prompt at footballkink2, where Mesut and Fábio are both hopelessly infatuated with Cristiano.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Same sh*t, different day

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this fic roughly a year ago, but got hopelessly discouraged as the season progressed (rough year that was, 2012-2013). But watching the RM boys play this season has given me a modicum of inspiration to continue. So I'll be editing and re-vamping and gradually posting the updated version here. 
> 
> I'll try to reach a formal conclusion, but given the turn of events at the end of last season, it could end somewhat sad. I am not a fan of sad endings though, so I'll try my best to bring as much happiness as I can to these boys :')

Fábio reluctantly makes his way to the dining hall, where his teammates are celebrating their 3-0 win against Granada. He didn’t watch the game, still too pissed at his four-match ban to even attend from the stands. But given their recent poor form, a win was by no means secure, so perhaps, Fábio should have made his presence known, at least to offer spiritual support, for whatever that's worth. 

Needless to say, El Mister had been less than amused by the whole red card incident—refusing to even acknowledge Fábio, let alone speak with him after the match against Getafe—which did nothing to sooth the young defender’s nerves. It had been a straight red, during the waning minutes of their first loss of the season. A defender clipped Cris, just as the striker broke through the opponent's defense, and the ref—for the umpteenth time that evening—did nothing. Fábio felt his blood broil as he rose from the bench, nails digging into the skin of his palms. 

“Hijo de puta!” The words left his lips before his mind could catch up, and his evening ended just like that—a sending off without playing a single minute of the match. 

And as if that hadn’t been humiliating enough, the committee decided to make an example of this untimely outburst, as if _referees_ were the ones in need of protecting. 

A four-match ban—which Fábio had already served two—which leaves him only a week after International break, to endure the remainder of his punishment.

And even though Aitor had advised him to attend the home matches—to learn from observation—Fábio decided against it. It wouldn’t help his mood, especially when a certain annoying, bug-eyed German is always following Cris on the pitch, delivering brilliant passes, and bouncing into Cris’s arms every time the striker scores—Fábio wants to gag just thinking about it. 

He is well aware of his contradictions, since more often than not, Fábio follows Cris like a shadow as well. But it’s different between him and Cris—because they have a special Portuguese bond—which makes stuff like cuddles and neck kisses okay. Mesut should just get the fuck out. _Seriously_.

Fábio sighs as he passes through the arched entrance of the hall, expecting his teammates to be all over each other, but to his surprise, everyone seems oddly quite. Fábio bites the corner of his lip as he approaches the Portuguese table, wondering maybe El Mister wasn’t satisfied with their performance, even though it was a 3-0 win. It is only after he flopped down next to Pepe that he realizes Cris is nowhere to be found. 

“Where’s Cris?” Fábio asks. 

Pepe shrugs, while Marcelo mumbles something about talking to the press, so Fábio takes it upon himself to search for his national team captain, craning his neck to see above the various bowed heads. He fails to locate Cris, but he does spot Mesut sitting between Sami and Karim, looking smitten as usual as the two men competed for his attention. 

Fábio wrinkles his nose in disgust.

Mesut always seems to have this kind of affect on people—maybe because he’s shy and delicate-looking and doesn’t speak Spanish well—so that everyone feels the need to protect him, as if he’s some fragile baby deer. But Fábio knows better. He's unfortunate enough to see glimpses of Mesut’s real self, especially after realizing their mutual infatuation towards Cris. 

And Mesut can be a sharp-tongued, devious, little bitch when he felt like it, and much to Fábio’s frustration, no one else seems to believe that about the German. Not even Pepe—which is probably the most disheartening of all. Ever since Fábio had arrived at Madrid, his fellow compatriot had been his confidant in anything he could not tell Cris, and despite his callous, ogre-like exterior, Pepe can be quite considerate with words, never failing to comfort the young defender after a particularly rough screw up.

But Pepe likes Mesut— _hell_ , everybody likes Mesut—and there was nothing Fábio could do about it, except to shake with rage every time the German makes a snide remark at him. Fábio’s Spanish is still subpar, and he could never think of a clever comeback until hours too late. 

And just as he had anticipated, Mesut approaches him after dinner, when both of them are isolated from their respective friend groups. Fábio keeps his back straight and his guard up, raising his chin parallel to the ground. They are more or less the same height, but Fábio is pretty sure that his hair is taller than Mesut.

The German halts when he is about a yard away, tilting his head and smiling innocently, so the others would suspect nothing short of casual exchange between the two.

But what he actually says, in smooth albeit accented Spanish, is, “Hope you’re enjoying that four-match ban. Only a small downgrade from being benched all the time.”

Fábio scowls at his rival, before responding in equally crappy Spanish, “Heard you barely played two minutes today. Looks like Luka Modrić will be our new maestro from now on.”

Mesut's cool facade momentarily falters, before the German curls his lips to a sneer. “Could say the same about you and Marcelo. Except that starting position was never yours to begin with.”

“So you’re not denying that your form’s been crap,” Fábio counters without missing a beat. “What happened to all those assists, assist king? I hope Ricky gets the nod ahead of you too.”

Fábio allows himself to be smug, because he usually doesn’t last this long with Mesut. But a sinister shadow falls over the German’s face, and the Portuguese defender feels both thrilled and terrified to be able to ruffle Mesut’s feathers like this. 

“At least I’ve proven myself to the club and the fans.” Mesut says slowly, articulating each syllable with venom and disdain. His Spanish isn’t even half as bad as what he let others believe. “You’re not worth the 30 million we paid for.” 

Wow, that was a low blow. 

Fábio feels as if he has fallen into ice water, his fists clenching involuntarily, wanting nothing more than to punch the little fucker in the face. 

But Iker approaches them right at that moment, eyes darting suspiciously between the two young players. “Everything alright here?”

And both Mesut and Fábio break out their best wide-eyed, innocent, puppy face, speaking hastily in broken Spanish to ensure their captain that everything is just fine and dandy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much! Please drop a comment :-)


	2. T'was the night before international break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bringin' back Fabzil (as if Fabzil has ever been a thing)
> 
> But maybe this gif would offer some inspiration. (http://iiscos.tumblr.com/post/70754094311/i-still-believe-in-the-phrases-that-we-breathe)
> 
> Haha, enjoy

Mesut jabs his key into the lock of his apartment door—making the process of opening it as loud as possible—hoping that his roommate, Sami, would get the message that he is indeed upset. He pushes the door open harder than necessary, toppling over the bin which they used to keep umbrellas in, before throwing his bag in the direction of the sofa, inches away from breaking a framed photo of Lena Gercke.

He looks around, and Sami is nowhere to be seen, but Mesut knows that he is here. He can hear the other rustling in the kitchen, the aroma of whatever he’s cooking thick in the air. 

Mesut lets out a long wail before throwing himself into the sofa face first, all the while plotting a suitable punishment for Sami and his complete disregard of the younger German’s woes. 

But he decides to forgive Sami when he offers him schnitzel for dinner.

“Bad day, huh?” Sami asks, reaching across from the table to wipe a breadcrumb from the corner of Mesut’s lips.

Mesut makes a face at the infantilizing gesture, but nonetheless, takes it as a green light to vent off his frustrations. “Luka Modrić got the nod ahead of me today.”

“El Mister had to start him sometime,” Sami takes a sip of water. “It wasn’t even an important match. Don’t sweat it.”

“It was our first win of the season.” Mesut responds petulantly, but Sami remains unfazed, but sympathetic.

“It wasn’t supposed to be our first win. We were supposed to win two games ago, but we fucked up. This win is barely a consolation.“

“Well, I was part of that fuck-up two games ago.” 

“We were all part of that fuck-up. But it doesn’t matter anymore.” Sami points his fork at Mesut for emphasis. “We just need to work harder and make up for it.”

There was a long silence before the older German speaks again. “So are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you or what?”

And he catches Mesut off guard, his schnitzel falling off of his fork before he can bite into it, leaving his mouth gaping open. 

“W-What do you mean?” The younger German manages as he wipes his mouth on a napkin.

“Let’s just say your rampant jealousy is obvious.” Sami says casually, but he keeps his eyes steady, searching for a response.

“Jealous of _Luka_?” Mesut snorts and tries to play it off. “He’s good, but no one can pass a better through ball to Cris than me.”

Mesut keeps his gaze resolutely on his plate, knowing that he sounds like an arrogant brat right now. But one thing he appreciates the most about Sami is that he can be as awful as he wants, and the older German would accept him as he is—for all his securities and insecurities. And Mesut should thank him, although he doesn’t, not when he’s too busy being awful. 

“Bingo.” Sami tilts his glass towards Mesut. “With regards to Cris, that is.”

And Mesut knows that he is just delaying the inevitable by now. “You think I’m jealous of Cris?” 

“Not of Cris. But someone who also likes to pass to Cris, even if he’s all the way on the other end of the pitch.”

The younger German couldn’t contain his displeasure any longer, frowning vehemently. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just give up. They almost never reach Cris anyway. Should leave the long passing to Xabi.”

“Like I said. Rampant jealous. Obvious.” Sami speaks with his mouth full and Mesut wrinkles his nose in disapproval. 

“Why would I be jealous of Fábio?” Mesut demands.

“He probably reminds you a lot of yourself.” 

Sami _has_ to be joking. Mesut is absolutely appalled. 

“I’m not joking.” Sami adds. “Nice face though. Don’t ever play poker.”

Mesut snaps his jaw shut, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. “Okay, so besides the obvious—” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “—how are we alike _at all_?”

And Sami responds with his usual nonchalance. “You both are young, hard-working, quality footballers who play for the biggest club in the world.” 

Mesut rolls his eyes as if he were a five-year-old who is being lectured to.

“And despite being grown men, both of you somehow developed this _ridiculous_ school girl crush on Cristiano Ronaldo, and think it’s okay to jump on his back and kiss his neck right in the middle pitch—cameras pointing and everything. Everyone makes fun of you guys, by the way.” 

Mesut’s jaws drop again, and Sami couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which one of these was the obvious.”

“I don’t kiss him on the neck.” Mesut says lamely.

“No, you don’t.” Sami returns his attention to his meal. “You’re the more subtle of the two. Imagine that.”

“Well, it’s not fair.” The younger German throws his fork down. “Just because he’s Portuguese, Cris favors him. And El Mister favors him—”

“Fábio works hard too, you know?” Sami says matter-of-factly as if he were the voice of reason, and Mesut wants nothing more than to prove him wrong, even if he obviously isn’t.

“I’m not saying he doesn’t work hard. But he gets more than he deserves. He plays with Cris on the national team. He lives next door to him. They carpool. Their _children_ play together. Ever since he came to Madrid, Cris basically took him under his wings.” _That used to be me_ , Mesut silently adds. “And it just isn’t fair.”

Sami nods, more in acknowledgment than in agreement. “Well, I’m sorry you feel this way.”

“After Cris said he was sad to the press, I asked him why,” Mesut says softly, hands clenching and unclenching on his lap. “He just smiled and told me not to worry about it. Whatever it is, he doesn’t trust me.”

“Maybe it’s nothing.” Sami sighs. “Maybe it’s something between him and the club, and it’s none of our business.”

“Now they’re saying he might leave.” Mesut pokes at the remainder of his food, eyes downcast. Even though the younger German can be a brat at times—seeing him sad like this—it’s kind of heart breaking.

“You can’t believe everything the tabloids say,” Sami tries to comfort him, “In fact, you shouldn’t believe anything they say at all.” 

“Do you think Fábio knows?” Mesut looks up, and any other day, he would feel disgusted with himself, at how childish he sounds. But right now, he’s too frustrated care, because never in his life has he wanted something so badly, so out of reach.

“Well, I still don’t think _Fábio_ would be the first person he’d go to for this type of thing—” Sami stops and trails off, as if he has ventured into forbidden territory, and quickly tries to save himself. “You know, even if it is professional, he has a family. _Girlfriend_.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Mesut wasn’t fooled but he braves a smile.

“I’m not saying that it won’t work out, but if it doesn’t,” Sami says as he gets up, taking both of their plates before heading into the kitchen. “Don’t forget there are people who like you too, if you ever get tired of pursuing—Sometimes, it feels good to be wanted, you know?”

“Sami—” Mesut feels his ribcage construct. “You know I-I—”

“I was talking about Karim,” Sami laughs as he makes his way into the living room, straightening the photo of Lena that Mesut had previously knocked askew. “I’m happily engaged, remember?”

~~

Tomorrow is the first day of International competition. Mesut has his flight to Germany at nine in the morning, meaning he will need to get up at six, the latest. He should really follow Sami’s advice and take a large sleeping pill, but he doesn’t. And every time he closes his eyes, all he can think about is _Cris, Cris, Cris, Fábio, Sami, Karim, Cris_.

After today, Cris will be gone for the next ten days. 

Mesut reaches for his alarm on the nightstand, which read 11:45, and wonders if it’s too late. What would he say to Cris anyways, that he hasn’t said before, that would work now?

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and sneaks out of the apartment with only half the intention of actually paying Cris a visit. He brings a football with him, dribbles on the sidewalk along the way, with music blasting in his headphones. It’s late, and the streetlights are dim enough so that no one recognizes him, the few people who actually pass him by. 

Mesut thinks about the beginning of their season, their opening draw to Valencia came as quite a shock, and their loss to Getafe even more so. Their win in el Clásico was somewhat a consolation—earning them the first, albeit minor, trophy of the season, the Supercopa—but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re already five points behind in the league.

They finally gained some traction during their third game of the season against Granada, a 3-0 score line was a comfortable win. But Cristiano, who loves scoring goals, lacked his usual energy—no celebration, no smiles—despite netting the first two goals of the match.

“I am unhappy, and the club knows why,” he reveled during the press conference afterwards. His teammates exchanged nervous glances, while El Mister broiled in icy rage. The press afterwards, had a ball. 

“ _Cristiano Ronaldo too unhappy to celebrate his goals._ ”

“ _Is Cristiano sad for more money or more affection?_ ” 

“ _Ronaldo unhappy at Real Madrid? Set for Man United? PSG?_ ”

It hasn’t even been a day, and Cris’ name is already all over the news, and Mesut doubts he will be reading about anything else for the next two weeks. Cris, Cris, it’s always about Cris. And there’s no escape for him, or for anyone who happens to care.

Mesut walks nearly a mile before he spots Cris’s house. And he thinks about turning back, but the lights are on behind closed curtains, so Cris must be awake. 

And Mesut thinks it’s either now, or ten days from now, and even if he doesn’t get the answers he wants, he can at least wish Cris good luck, and hope the striker realizes that whatever he’s going through right now, he can always count on the team—count on Mesut.

He pauses his music—the silence of the night suddenly and shockingly deafening—and he can feel the loud rhythmic thumping of his heart as he makes his way to the front porch. He hears a voice inside, too obscured for words to travel, but the desperation is evident in the tone. It’s a woman’s voice, and Mesut grimly realizes he is probably intruding. 

But before his tentative hand can drop to the side, the young German is suddenly hauled into a bush, feeling the blunt weight of a person above him him—straddling his waist, as a firm hand covers his mouth.

Mesut struggles, kicks at the air, and claws at the hand preventing him from screaming. His teeth cuts into skin before he can process the frantic whispering against his ear, “Mesut! Mesut, calm down! It’s me, Fábio—Ow! Fuck, did you just _bite_ me?”

“Fàbio?” Mesut spits into the grass, hissing angrily, as he shoves at the Portuguese defender. “Get the fuck off of me!”

“Shut up! Do you want to wake up the entire block?” Fábio puts a finger before his lips, even though he is hissing just as loudly and angrily as Mesut. “I came here to talk to Cris—”

“No, _I_ came here to talk to Cris!” Mesut seethes, “ _You’re_ here being a creepy-ass fuck and dragging people into bushes at night.”

“Will you just shut up for two seconds and listen?” Fábio grits his teeth, hands twitching in a choking gesture. “Cris is in there with Irina—”

“Oh, thank God, I thought it was his Schizophrenic other self!” 

Fábio gives him the dirtiest look he can muster under the dim light of Cris’s porch, and Mesut rolls his eyes, but backs off (although not without sarcasm and a sneer). “Okay, sorry, _please_ continue.”

Fábio presses his lips into a thin line but accepts whatever he can get. “I think they are talking about what happened today. What Cris said to the press.”

“What do you know about today?” Mesut looks at the other suspiciously, but is suddenly interested, nonetheless.

“Probably less than you do. I wasn’t there for it. And all Pepe told me was that Cris didn’t celebrate his goals. And he told the press he was sad, and the club knows why.”

“That’s all?” Mesut acts unimpressed, searches Fábio’s expression for more.

“Yeah. Am I missing anything?” Fábio asks with a hint of hope, which makes Mesut irrationally and inexplicably annoyed. 

“No,” He decides after pause. Which isn’t a lie.

“I think Irina came to talk to Cris about it too,” Fábio looks at the direction of a nearby window, licking his lips in apprehension. 

“What did you find out?” Mesut asks.

“They’re just sort of arguing. I don’t know. I can barely hear anything. Also, they’re speaking in English. My English is worse than my Spanish.”

Fábio raises an eyebrow, urging the other to take a shot. And even though Mesut’s English pretty much sucks too—and eavesdropping outside of someone’s house is definitely beneath him—he still pushes past Fábio to press his ear against the wall beneath the window. Because after all, this might be his chance of the night to get some answers.

“—Please,” Mesut can hear Cris say. He sounds exhausted, as if he has been repeating the same thing all night. “It’s something between me and the club. I don’t want to talk about it. I haven’t told anyone anything outside of the club—”

“No, you told everyone. You announced it to the world,” The woman from before—Irina—sounds hurt and angry, “You said you wanted this—us—to be different, serious. And I had to find out from reading the _tabloids_? Why don’t you trust me?”

“This isn’t about us. It’s my career, and I don’t want it to affect us. Just let me handle it. I swear, I will handle it.”

A brief silence passes before Irina speaks again. “Are you going to leave Madrid?”

“No—Yes—I don’t know,” Cris stumbles over his response, “Maybe, if it doesn’t get resolved. If I can’t stand being here anymore—”

And Mesut understands that much. He doesn’t hear anything else afterwards, as if the voices are suddenly underwater echoes. He doesn’t feel Fábio gently pulling at his sleeve, asking to be filled in, or hear Irina’s final insults before storming off, as well as Cris’s uncommitted request for her to stay. He misses Irina opening the front door and slamming it behind her, the clicks of her heels sharp against the cobblestone, as she makes her way closer to the bush they were hiding in. He misses all of this until Fábio tackles him, pins him to the ground behind the shrubbery, cursing under his breath. But it was too late. 

He hears the faint thumping of his football rolling down the steps. He had forgotten about it since Fábio had dragged him into the bush, and Irina must have accidentally kicked it.

“Who’s there?” Mesut hears Irina say, her voice clear for the first time, firm but wary.

And Fábio starts to panic, curses some more next to Mesut’s ear, and suggests maybe they should pretend to be raccoons.

“No, are you _stupid_?” The German snaps out of oblivion just in time for that. 

“I know you’re there.” Irina speaks again, accent thick on her elegant Russian tongue. Mesut can hear a rustling sound coming from her direction, keys jingling. “Are you a reporter? Either way I’m calling the police.” 

“No.” Mesut raises his voice and tries to push Fábio off, who pulls at his arm and hisses angrily about how Mesut has blown their cover, and that if Cris finds out they had been eavesdropping, he will die of mortification.

“Don’t call the police.” Mesut emerges from the bushes, dusting himself off while trying to push Fábio away with his foot. “We are his teammates. Cris’s. And that’s my football over there.”

Irina is standing maybe 20 feet away from them, arm crossed in front of her bosom. She must have recognized them, seeming more at ease, but her expression is nonetheless woefully unimpressed—lashes casting long shadows over her cheekbones, full lips pressed in a half-pout, half-frown. And Mesut thinks she looks beautiful—terrifyingly so—and he feels small standing before her, as if her elegant stiletto clad foot can crush him in her wake. 

“We were not doing anything…indecent,” Fábio says in broken Portuguese-accented English, picking leaves out of his hair as he stands up next to Mesut. And Mesut wonders whether he should advise Fábio to never speak again or just skip straight to the strangulation.

“You were listening to us,” Irina says, more of a statement than an accusation, and Mesut doesn’t know which is worse now—eavesdropping or whatever Fábio’s idocy had insinuated.

But he decides to be truthful, and responds as coolly as he can, “Yes, you’re right. Because we are worried about him. About what he said to the press today. About the club—”

Irina looks behind her for any sign that Cris might be watching, before approaching the two young footballers. “He wouldn’t tell me anything, I’m sure you’ve heard. Can you tell me anything?”

“We only know from what he said to the press. We wouldn’t be outside his window otherwise. If he had told us anything.” Mesut manages a shy smile and tries to lighten up the mood. He had never spoken to Irina personally, only seen her on the cover of a magazine or two—the revered Russian super-model girlfriend of Cristiano Ronaldo. And it’s so strange to see her in person finally, to realize that she is actually flesh and blood. 

Irina looks around more, as if to make sure that they are indeed alone, before speaking again. “I guess it’s safe to say that we want the same things. Can you do me a favor…?” Her voice trails off, and Mesut is quick to fill the gap. 

“Mesut. My name is Mesut,” he says, before adding almost reluctantly, “And he’s Fábio.”

Fábio doesn’t say anything but does an awkward half-wave. 

Irina smiles, dimples denting her cheeks almost uncharacteristically, and Mesut wonders if it’s strange that he finds her more beautiful when she frowns. 

“If you learn anything, Mesut and Fábio,” she says as she reaches forward, taking Mesut by the wrist. “Please tell me.”

She writes down a number on Mesut’s hand, before meeting his eyes again. “It’s frustrating sometimes, being his girlfriend. There are many things he’d rather share with you than with me.”

“Yeah,” Mesut says absentmindedly, looking down at the black ink on his skin. 

Irina steps away from them at that point, her expression dubious like she doesn’t actually expect much. But she politely excuses herself before making her way to her parked car by the front gate, the rhythmic tapping of her heels echoing in the night. Mesut and Fábio watch her until both her person and her car is out of sight. 

“Are you actually going to…” Fábio finally says.

Mesut shrugs. “If it’s something she should know.”

“That’s fair,” Fábio nods, and then it’s quiet again.

And Mesut feels like a hypocrite. Which is new, since he has never been one to play fair when it comes to something so boundless as—pursuing someone (he refuses to say love, because it isn’t. Falling in love isn’t that easy, even if it is Cristiano Ronaldo). Nevertheless, he feels some obligation to tell Fábio, because he was the one who pulled Mesut into the bush, told Mesut to listen under the window, and brought pieces of the puzzle together. And maybe Sami’s right about them being similar—at least they have similar ambitions when it comes to Cris—and if the worst were to happen, they would be equally devastated. 

“Cris says he might leave the club.” Mesut says quietly.

“What?” Fábio looks genuinely shocked, as if he had already expected their night, as well as the supplementing conversations, to be over. “You’re fucking with me.”

Fábio doesn’t speak in an unkind way—more out of disbelief than anything—but that doesn’t stop Mesut from feeling entitled to his irritation, because he is being considerate to the Portuguese for once, and the fucker should be thankful. Honestly, Mesut doesn’t have to tell him anything. 

“No, I am not fucking with you,” Mesut seethes through gritted teeth, “You wanted to know what I heard, didn’t you? Cris says he might leave Madrid if whatever problem he has with the club doesn’t get resolved.”

“Did he say what the problem was?” Fábio asks, more calmly than Mesut had anticipated, probably because Mesut looks and feels as if he’s on the verge of giving up.

“No, he didn’t.” He rubs the pulse under his left eye with the heel of his hand, exhausted. “And that’s all I heard. My flight is at nine tomorrow. I’m going to sleep.” 

“I can give you a lift if you want,” Fábio offers as Mesut steps out of the bush.

And Mesut wants to tell him, _No, we’re not friends. Nothing’s changed, and I still can’t stand you_. But, he doesn’t say any of that, mumbling a subdued, “No, thank you,” instead, before retrieving his football, and heading towards the dim light at the front gate.

~~

Mesut doesn’t think about Cris or Real Madrid, focuses all of his energy on the German National Team for the next few days. He doesn’t hear from any of his club teammates until the end of the first match, after he had somehow, unfathomably scored two goals against The Faroe Islands. There was no doubt that Germany was going to win, but Mesut scoring for Germany? He wonders if that’s going to be a new expectation from now on.

Mesut doesn’t check his phone until he stumbles back to the hotel that night, a little tipsy and way too happy. He flips through the texts he missed from Sergio, Karim, friends and family from back home—all were unsurprising except for one.

Fabio (10:05PM) : _don’t know if you know but cris scored today. he celebrated with the team afterwards and he seems fine. congrats on your goals too_

And Mesut wonders if this will be a new expectation as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment <3


	3. Força Portugal!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update due to popular demand. Enjoy some Portugal NT cameos. More Fabzil cuteness to come! :-D

Fábio starts in both matches for Portugal, and it felt absolutely exhilarating, having been sidelined for the past two weeks. They conceded the first goal in their match against Luxembourg, but after that, it had been total Portuguese domination. They won 2-1, but the score line hardly reflected on the number of chances they created. It was Cris who netted the equalizer, and the striker wore no frown this time. Whatever unhappiness he felt with Real Madrid, he kept them hidden in Portugal.

Things went more smoothly against Azerbaijan. Cris didn’t score, but the Portuguese captain had been instrumental in all their attacks. And it was a comfortable win in the end, 3-0.

The team stayed in the hotel that night, having booked an early flight tomorrow. And to pass the time, everyone gathered in Miguel Veloso’s room to play cards and watch match highlights from the other qualification groups. 

“Close call for Germany,” Nani remarks, once Fábio had given up trying to win at poker.

“Yeah?” The young defender turns to the TV, where Mesut is lining up to take the penalty. Four days ago, Germany had breezed passed the Faroe Islands, winning 3-0 with Mesut scoring a brace.

“2-1,” Nani says, “Looks like they’re not infallible after all, at least to their high standards.”

“Guess so,” Fábio hums noncommittally as Mesut buries the ball in the back of the net.

~~

Pepe plops himself into the chair next to Fábio, as the rest of the Portuguese National Team slowly make their way to their mandatory breakfast—the last of their first international break.

“Oh God, did you drop your phone in the toilet again?” Pepe sounds aghast, prompting Fábio to look up. He schools his expression immediately, realizing he had been scowling at his phone.

“No, I’m just waiting for a text.”

“Stop being a pussy and just go talk to him. He’s is right over there.” Pepe winks, tilting his head in the direction of their captain, who is currently being pulled aside by Coach Bento. 

Fábio grins, punches his teammate lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not Cris, you idiot.”

“Someone _else_?” Pepe gasps in feigned, exaggerated shock, plucking Fábio’s phone out of his hand in one swift motion. “Ex-boyfriend from Benfica? That crazy fan who sends you threatening love letters? Or, god forbid, your _wife_?”

Fábio doesn’t know whether to laugh or feel offended. “H-Hey, it’s not like that! Give it back!”

“Oh, I remember when I was your age, when players didn’t dick around with their teammates. Those were the days.” Pepe effectively thwarts Fábio’s half-hearted efforts by turning his back to the younger defender.

“That’s bullshit, and we both know it.” Fábio stands and tries to reach over Pepe, who, in turn, curls into a ball. “And don’t patronize me. I love my wife and daughter. But I love Portugal too. Real Madrid.”

“Yeah, and fucking Cris is like fucking Portugal too. Real Madrid.” Pepe snickers and ducks as Fábio tries to smack him on the back of the head.

“That’s so fucked up!” the younger defender laughs, completely appalled. “Mind your own business and give me back my shit already!”

“Fine, fine.” Pepe places the phone on the table, pushing it towards Fábio. “But leave Mesut alone. He’s a nice kid. Don’t corrupt him.”

“You just don’t know the real him,” Fabio snorts, takes his phone and shoves it into his pocket protectively, hoping that Pepe merely glanced at the name and didn’t read any of his messages. “He’s bitchy and evil, and he bites if you try to pull him into a bush.”

“Is _that_ what this is?” Pepe points to the small, but rather angry-looking bite mark coloring Fábio’s thumb red. It’s healing after a week’s time, but visible nonetheless. “I thought you had a fight with a raccoon again.”

“Nope, Mesut bit me the night before we left for Portugal,” Fábio says as if it were a completely normal explanation, examining the wound with a small, annoyed frown. 

Pepe presses his palm to his face. “I’m afraid to ask, but why were you pulling Mesut into a bush at night.”

“We were trying to…uh…listen to someone…outside their window.” After a brief moment of consideration, Fábio decides to reveal as little information as possible, unsure of how Pepe would react. There is no doubt that Pepe is worried about Cris—everyone on the team is, after all—but no one in their right minds would approve of what Fábio did. They all say the best solution is to give Cris some space, keep the damage with the press at a minimum—or something lame like that—until everything blows over. But Fábio is thinking beyond the obvious and logical, just in case space is not enough. Because Cris is actually considering leaving Real Madrid, and there is no way Fábio would just sit around and do nothing. Even if it means allying himself with someone like Mesut, the little shit. 

Pepe glares at the younger defender, hardly impressed. “So basically, you were eavesdropping outside of _Cris’s_ window and dragged Mesut along when he showed up.”

_Shit, how did he figure that out?_

“And he _bit_ me!” Fábio tries to dramatically change the subject, cradling his injured hand like a battle wound. “I think it’s swelling up. Mesut could have given me hand herpies!”

Pepe wisely ignores Fábio and begins to lecture the young defender in a very older brother-like fashion. “Stop being an idiot and mind your own business. If Cris has a problem with the club, it’s between him and the club. There’s nothing you can do, so stay out of it.’”

Fábio stares at his hands on his lap and sulks silently, vowing to never tell Pepe anything again. 

“I’m saying this for your own good,” the older defender continues, “ What if Cris found out? You know how he feels about his privacy. He would’ve been furious at both you and Mesut. I know you two don’t always get along, but if you’re going to do something dumb like that, don’t throw Mesut under the bus too. He’s younger than you and doesn’t speak that much Spanish, so you should really be watching out for him.”

Fábio doesn’t even know where to begin on how wrong Pepe is, so he decides not to at all. 

“His Spanish is _fine_ ,” he declares resolutely, as he gets up to leave.

~~

**Fri, Sept 7, 2012**

Fabio (10:05PM): _don’t know if you know but cris scored today. he celebrated with the team afterwards and he seems fine. congrats on your goals too_

Fabio (11:55PM): _we all went to a club after the win. cris didnt dance tho_

 

**Sat, Sept 8, 2012**

Fabio (7:02AM): _cris isnt here for breakfast and i want to save him something jus in case. do you remember if he likes waffles, pancakes, or french toast?_

Fabio (7:18AM): _nvm he’s here now. and it’s french toast in case you were wondering._

Fabio (5:33PM): _practice was the usual. everyone tried to cheer him up by passing the ball to him as often as possible. i think he got it :)_

 

**Sun, Sept 9, 2012**

Fabio (12:20PM): _hey mesut, this is fabio btw if you didnt kno lol_

Fabio (8:50PM): _whatever reason cris was sad before at least hes not showing it with the national team_

 

**Mon, Sept 10, 2012**

Fabio (6:31PM): _mandatory team dinner tonight. cris kept on leaving and coming back. hes either on drugs, has a stomach virus, or making a lot of private calls._

 

**Tues, Sept 11, 2012**

Fabio (9:48PM): _haha nice penalty against austria. are they just gonna make you take it from now on? portugal’s penalty taker is better ;)_

 

**Wed, Sept 12, 2012**

Fabio (8:05AM): _i told pepe about us listening in on cris and he got so mad at both of us. so i think we shouldnt tell anyone else ok??_

Fabio (10:30PM): _see you tomorrow in spain, we need to come up with more plans_

 **(MESSAGE CANCELED)  
** Me (10:55PM): _GOD DAMNIT FABIO LEAVE ME ALONE I DONT CARE_

~~

Fábio decides to sit with João Moutinho on the plane ride back to Lisbon. João had chosen a seat by the windows, headphones already on and forehead pressed against the glass, waiting for takeoff like some five-year-old kid. He jumps a little when Fábio drops himself into the seat next to him. 

“Can I sit here?” Fábio says when João greets him with a mildly shocked expression, and he doesn’t really know why. Sure, Fábio usually sat with either Cris or Pepe during trips, but it’s not like they _never sit together_. They’re still _friends_. 

“Where’s Cris?” João asks, furrowing his brows as he pulls his headphones around his neck. 

“Sitting with the coach,” Fábio says, feeling slightly insulted that he has to justify his decision. Really, it’s not that weird.

“Ah, that explains it. Kind of.” João leans into the seat cushions, making himself more comfortable. “Pepe?”

“Well…” Fábio’s voice trails a little as he sneaks a glance behind him. Pepe is sitting a few rows back, seemingly deep in conversation with Helder Postiga. Fábio had been giving Pepe the silent treatment ever since the team breakfast, and he actually feels a bit guilty. He probably will talk to his teammate again after the plane lands, and even though Pepe would never give him his approval, Fábio knows that he can trust Pepe at least, and that the older defender will never betray him, which is enough, for now.

“Well?” João nudges Fábio with his elbow, redirecting his attention back to their present conversation.

“Well, let’s just say Pepe is too busy being a responsible adult.” And Fábio realizes the irony—since the Portuguese center back, along with Marcelo, are still probably the greatest jokesters Real Madrid will experience for a long time. But only when the pranks are harmless and the mood is light. Where’s the risk in that?

Not that Fábio is a risk-seeking daredevil himself, but he has always been driven by emotion. And when everything is harmless and light, he is perfectly content with ducking his head and smiling shyly, taking everything as it is. But when all that is good and _normal_ is threatening to crumble, Fábio simply can’t will himself to pretend it’s all still the same. And the idea of not playing on the same team as Cris—a Real Madrid without Cristiano Ronaldo—Fábio feels like he’s about to jump out of his own skin.

“Ah, that’s strange,” João remarks, more out of politeness than genuine interest, but Fábio’s not picky about his audience. He had already tolerated Mesut and his endless pretense, hadn’t he? Really, he deserves a fucking medal for that.

The silence between them stretches after that, and Fábio begins to feel awkward, wondering maybe João didn’t want to sit with him, or thought that Fábio was only using him as a mode of escape. The young defender clears his throat, before clumsily starting a new conversation. “You had a really good game against Azerbaijan. That pass you made to Cris—It was—”

“I knew it!” João nearly starts yelling, “I knew this was a trap!”

“What the hell?” Fábio blinks, taken completely off guard. “What’s wrong with you?”

“No, stop it with your sick obsession with Cris. I don’t want to hear it!” The corner of João’s mouth quirks, and Fábio couldn’t believe it. João is definitely fucking with him. “There’s no way I’m sitting next to you the entire time!””

“Fuck you, João!” Fábio laughs out of embarrassment, tries to pin João down when he starts thrashing, making a scene. “I wasn’t even going to—Oh, _shut up_!”

“Shame on you, Fábio, he is our _captain_! Go wash your mind out with holy water!” João is laughing too now, kicking at the seat in front of him. “Get me out of here, someone, help!” 

Miguel Veloso, who is unfortunate enough to be sitting in front of them, turns around and throws his pillow at João. “Stop kicking my seat, asshole. I’m trying to sleep,” he says and ducks when João throws the pillow back.

Fábio can feel his cheeks heating up and tries to smother João with his own pillow. He looks around nervously to find Bruno Alves coughing into his hand, and Ricardo Costa turning up the volume to his headphones. But Fábio could care less about them, and breathes a sigh of relief when both Pepe a few seats back and Cris a few seats forward appear undisturbed in their respective conversations. 

“You’re so fucking loud.” Fábio presses harder against the pillow, earning a muffled protest from the Portuguese midfielder. “Do you want the whole plane to hear you?”

“The whole plane already knows,” Raul Meireles, who is sitting next to Miguel, decides to make his presence known. “But that doesn’t mean we want to hear it. So, João, shut up.”

João pulls the pillow off of his face long enough to catch his breath. “Raul, if you switch seats with me, I’ll—” 

“Suck your dick.” Miguel helpfully provides.

And João pretends to think about it for two seconds, before happily agreeing, “I’ll do it!”

“Oh, fuck you guys!” Fábio whines when he realizes everyone is picking on him at this point. He knows that his crush on Cris is obvious, but they have no right to be so obnoxious and evil about it—especially when Cris, and the coach are merely a few yards away.

“Okay, okay, Fábito, we’ll be nice,” Miguel reaches over and ruffles his hair, “What can we do for you?”

“Nothing! I just needed somewhere to sit!” Fábio bats Miguel’s hand away, before crossing his arms in front of him and sinking into his seat. 

“Aww, that’s wrong, Fáb?” João pokes at his cheek and grins, speaking at a normal volume now. “You can tell us.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Fábio snaps back. “Can’t I just sit with you guys?”

“Of course you can,” João says sweetly, “On one condition though.”

Fábio rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t get me thrown off the plane.”

“Oh, nothing like that,” João laughs, “Just tell us why you’re not sitting with Cris or Pepe. The truth this time—maybe regarding certain issues with your club?”

Fábio realizes where this is going and mentally smacks himself for walking into it voluntarily. But he still tries to play it off, all the while formulating an escape plan. “I told you already. Cris is talking with the coach. And me and Pepe…we had a fight.”

“About?” João grins again, eyes glinting of mischief.

“About who has better hair,” Fábio blurts out before attempting a quick escape. “Okay, I’m going to sit with Nani now. See you guys later. Bye.”

But João jumps on him like a clingy koala before he can even stand up properly. 

“Get off of meee!” Fábio lets out a long exasperated wail as both of them tumble back into the seat cushions. 

“Tell us what you know,” João says, lips pressed against the collar of his shirt, and Fábio tries to kick him away. “Why did Cris say he was sad?”

“If you wanted information the entire time, you shouldn’t have made fun of me in the first place.” Fábio tries to writhe out of João’s grip, but only manages to roll onto his stomach before the midfielder is on top of him again.

“Aww, come on, don’t be lame. I was just joking around,” João coos, and for someone so small, he is a lot stronger than he seems. “And it’s not like you were going to tell us before.”

“I don’t actually know anything, I swear!” Fábio tries to grab onto Rui Patrício as the goalkeeper makes his way up the isle, but Rui ignores him, doesn’t want any part in it, it seems.

“Is Cris going to leave Madrid?” Miguel asks, still leaning his head over the back of his seat cushion, watching the other two with amusement. 

And Fábio thinks about what Mesut had told him—about how Cris is considering leaving if he can’t stand being there anymore—but he doesn’t want to tell any of that to João or Miguel, because he would be betraying Cris. Betraying Mesut. And Fábio is surprised at how much that might bother him.

“I don’t know. I hope he doesn’t leave.” Fábio says softly against the seat cushions. “I think only the club knows. The coaches and the captains. But no one else.”

“It’s probably none of your business, João,” Raul comes to the rescue, leans over the back of his seat as well. “And for Christ’s sake, get off of him. You’re going to make this trip uncomfortable for everyone.” 

“Don’t act like you not curious at all,” João pouts, and Fábio takes advantage of this distraction to push him off. 

“I’m sure things will clear up eventually,” Raul says calmly, “Maybe once the season picks up and he starts scoring goals again. Once the media stops being annoying as fuck.”

“Like that’s ever going to happen.” Miguel sighs. “But at least Cris seemed fine with the national team. At least he’s happy with us.”

“We care about him a lot too, you know?” João says, turning back to Fábio. He seems to shrink into his seat a little, almost apologetic. “He’s our captain, and we want the best for him no matter where he is. We don’t want him to be unhappy.” 

And Fábio thinks it’s amazing how João can go from being a devious little son-of-a-bitch to this sad-looking…koala—yeah, that’s the word—all doe-eyes and shy smiles. It’s not fair, because Fábio still wants to be mad at him.

“I was telling the truth when I said I don’t know anything,” Fábio sighs, “Why he’s sad, if he’s going to leave Madrid or not…that’s why me and Pepe fought. Because he told me to mind my own business.”

“I’m guessing you’re not going to listen to him,” João gives a lop-sided smile, and Fábio just can’t stay angry, because he and João are very much the same in some ways.

And he wonders how Cris can be sad when so many people around him care—Irina, Fábio, Mesut, Pepe, Real Madrid, João, Miguel, Raul, Portugal—and the list goes on. But there are a lot of people who hate him too, and Fábio doesn’t want to think about them.

The flight attendants are asking everyone to be seated for takeoff now, and João bites the corner of his lip, looking at Fábio with a hint of hesitancy. “Are you still going to sit with Nani?”

“Yes,” Fábio deadpans. 

But João laughs and grabs at his wrist. “No, sit with me. I won’t bother you for the rest of the trip, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a review :)


	4. Is this the real life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! <3

Mesut and Sami return to Madrid during the night. They have dinner, and Mesut watches TV until it’s late enough to sleep. Sami stays up later than him—talking to Lena probably—and Mesut thinks it must be nice to have someone like Lena to talk to before sleeping, murmuring soft reassurances and promises to be together. 

Mesut always gets lonely after returning from Germany, especially the first night without his friends or family. It has been over two years since he had signed with Real Madrid, and he should really be used to it by now. But he isn’t, and Mesut thinks Sami’s right (he usually is) that it must feel good to be wanted. And he is happy for Sami, that he has found someone who wants him back, because not everyone is that fortunate. But Sami deserves it, deserves everything good that is happening for him right now. 

And Mesut thinks about Cris, and how badly he wants him— to stay, to be happy, to win, to smile and laugh, and to want him back. And none of that is happening, despite all of his good intentions and efforts. Mesut spends the long night thinking about that.

He arrives at practice late the next morning, stumbles out of the lockers with untied laces just in time for Mou to give him the icy-stare of disapproval. He runs laps with Karim, stretches with Ángel, trains quietly and mindlessly, and no one bothers him. Everyone is a little depressed since the awful start of the season—five points behind only after four games—and even though young players like Mesut are often kept in the dark about the inner workings of the club of the club (just worry about football, as they are always told) they can still nonetheless sense that something’s not right. From the way Iker frowns, and how Marcelo doesn’t joke around anymore, the tension in the air is so thick, like the calm before a storm. 

No one talks about it though—as if it’s taboo—and Mesut wonders if everyone knows a little something but is afraid to speak, afraid of it being true. So Mesut doesn’t ask around, sensing the mood and not wanting to make matters worse. He keeps his mind blank, doesn’t pay attention to what’s around him, or feel how tired he is, until Fábio tackles him so hard that he practically takes his legs right out from under him. 

Mesut falls, unable to make a sound as his back hits the ground, lungs deflating. He looks around to see if anyone has noticed, but his teammates are all too far away, distracted by Luka Modrić and his inability to speak Spanish. So Mesut curses silently, stares wearily at Fábio and the gray sky beyond, until the Portuguese breaks out in one of his characteristic grins.

“You never returned my texts,” Fábio says, and Mesut can’t tell if he’s joking or not. 

“You deserve a red card for that.” The German groans as his assailant hauls him to his feet.

“Nope,” Fábio declares, “You dived.” 

Mesut scowls, shrugs his arm away from the Portuguese defender before making his way to the football that had been previously knocked from under him.

But Fábio follows him, pulls at him by the shoulder. “Hey, that’s the matter with you?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about.” Mesut shrugs the other off.

“You look like shit.” Fábio helpfully elaborates, “Are you depressed or something?”

“Everyone looks like shit right now.” Mesut mumbles without really meaning too, but it’s true. With the current state of their league standings, it’s hard _not_ to look like shit.

“That’s not a reason for you to be depressed though.” Fábio says in earnest, as if he’s taking Mesut’s half-hearted responses more seriously than he should. 

“For Crist’s sake, sense the mood!” Mesut groans in frustration, “We’re fucking up league games, everyone’s out of form, and the team—I don’t know—we’re all just a mess. So me looking like this—like shit—it’s normal.” 

“It’s only the beginning of the season,” Fábio says, his voice sounding closer than it should, “Things will pick up.”

Mesut turns around, stares at the Portuguese defender incredulously. “Are you trying to make me _feel_ better?”

Fábio just shrugs. “If you’re depressed…”

“Shut up. I’m not depressed.” Mesut snaps, dribbling the ball back towards the rest of the team and wondering why El Mister hasn’t yelled at them for wandering so away far no apparent reason.

“It’s about Cris, isn’t it? What he said before we left.” Fábio speaks louder than before, as if this is what he had wanted to say all along, “I don’t want him to leave. Do you?”

“…No, no I don’t.” Mesut reluctantly responds, because seriously, how else is he supposed to answer that?

“Then, let’s do something about it. We’re the only ones who knows.”

Mesut sighs, kicks at the football dejectedly. “Iker probably knows. El Mister. People who matter, who care about him. They can help him.”

“We care about him too, so why not us?” Fábio says as if everything is easy, black and white.

“I don't think we can.” Mesut attempts walk away again, but he can hear the soft rustle of studs against grass following him.

“What do you mean? You’re scared that he’s actually going to leave?”

Mesut huffs in irritation, his patience growing thin. “No, I mean we’re not important enough to do anything. Cris won’t tell us what’s wrong, so it obviously doesn’t involve us.”

“But if we figure things out for ourselves,” Fábio says persistently, as if his ideas were actually brilliant, “We might be able to do something about it.”

“You are _awfully_ optimistic.” Mesut grumbles, although what he actually meant to say was _simple-minded_ , or maybe _stupid_ , or _I hate you. Leave me alone_.

But then he feels Fábio’s hand on the back of his head, ruffling his hair slightly, and he could hardly believe it. They still aren’t friends, and unnecessary touching between two non-friends should be kept at a minimum. Mesut wants to bat the unwanted hand away, but Fábio withdraws before he gets the chance.

“If you’re so upset by this, you should talk to someone,” Fábio says, brows wrinkling in what appears to be concern, “You won’t feel any better if you just sulk by yourself, and people will start to worry.”

And this just makes Mesut feel all the more uncomfortable because Fábio actually sounds considerate, and he’s not used to conversations with the Portuguese defender that doesn’t involve low-jabs and mean-spirited comments. Mesut doesn’t even know what expression he should have on his face right now.

Fábio must have felt it too, looking around hesitantly as a faint blush spreads across cheeks, before deciding to bring their conversation back to normalcy. “I’m not saying you should talk to _me_ —or that I’m worried or anything. Just that—like you said—everyone’s all wound up lately, and El Mister's mad for a lot of reasons. The team doesn’t need you being all depressed, on top of everything—so get over it.”

Mesut couldn’t help but grin at that, deciding that normalcy between them is good, and he can handle normalcy. So he decides to say the first thing that comes to mind. “Why do you even bother coming to practice? You’re still banned for two games.”

And Fábio scowls, clearly insulted, but Mesut can tell that there is also a hint of relief in the way his responses come off naturally after that. “Didn’t know you cared enough to keep track. You are you so obsessed with me?”

“I’m not obsessed,” Mesut snorts, “It’s not that hard to count down from four. Not for me, at least.”

And he expects Fábio to remark on his poor form now, or how he’ll probably lose his place on the starting XI again in the next match, or _something_. But the Portuguese doesn’t respond, keeps his mouth shut and glares daggers instead.

And Mesut almost wants to tell him that it’s okay, that he’s not actually depressed, and he can take whatever Fábio throws at him, no problem. But then, he feels awkward again with the prolonged silence—like he should be saying sorry—which is ridiculous because he doesn’t have to be sorry about anything. This is _normal_ between them.

So Mesut decides to change the subject instead, looking around aimlessly before asking, “Where is El Mister anyways? Why aren’t we being yelled at for doing nothing?”

Fábio looks around, before confirming. “Cris is missing too. Coincidence?”

~~

“AH! _Fuck_!” Mesut falls to the ground clutching at his ankle, face contorting in agony.

“What the hell is going on here?” A concerned Iker soon rushes to the scene, with Sergio, Marcelo, Pepe, and Sami following close behind. 

Fábio kneels on the grass beside the German, looks up at his captain and approaching teammates, and then back again at Mesut, who had stopped rolling around since then, and would appear otherwise dead if it weren’t for the soft whimpering.

“What happened?” Iker furrows his brows in disgruntlement, staring at the Portuguese defender accusingly before Fábio can even begin to justify himself.

And Fábio realizes just how bad the situation must seem. “I-It was an accident, I swear—”

“Did you forget and leave your studs up again?” Pepe asks, knowing fully well Fábio’s strengths and weaknesses on the pitch. His expression is dubious, and Fábio wonders if Pepe actually thinks that he had hurt Mesut on purpose.

“Sort of…” The young defender swallows, darting his eyes between his older teammates almost pitifully, “I-I didn’t mean to…”

Mesut slowly shifts onto his back, eyes glassy and sweat-damp hair clinging onto his forehead and cheeks. He looks like he’s about to cry. “My ankle—it really hurts.”

“Jesus,” Sergio kneels next to him, and ruffles his hair soothingly, “Why were you tackling him that hard anyway? We aren’t even in a practice match, let along a real one.”

“We were trying something new,” Fábio says in defense, although he knows it’s a lost cause by now.

“Is everything okay here?” Aitor Karanka, who had filled in the coaching role in Mourinho’s absence, makes his way to the crowd as well.

“Fábio might have injured Mesut just now,” Iker frowns, and Aitor looks absolutely mortified, as if he were a babysitter and one of the kids he was responsible for had just died.

So Fábio decides to take advantage of that. “Maybe I should take him to physio, just in case.”

Aitor nods fervently, as if what Fábio said was actually brilliant. “Yes, yes. Do that. Hopefully, it’s nothing.”

Sami, who had otherwise been silent the entire time, looks skeptically between the two young players. “Maybe I should take him instead.”

“No!” Both Mesut and Fábio blurt out in unison, before looking at each other in equal panic. 

“I’ll take him” Fábio quickly amends for them, standing up to meet the others at eye level. “It’s my fault, so I’ll do it.”

“Yeah, it’s his fault. Make him explain it to physio.” Mesut groans by his feet, and Fábio calls upon his last modicum of patience to not to step on the little fucker.

“O-Okay, you do that,” Aitor agrees without hesitation, and Fábio is actually glad that their assistant coach is such a pushover by nature. “Everyone else, get back to training.” He claps twice for emphasis, and the rest of the team reluctantly disperses. 

Fábio crouches down and slings Mesut’s arm over his shoulder to help him to his feet. He walks slowly, supports Mesut by the waist as the German hops along gingerly next to him. They make their way inside with some time and effort, but once the door closes behind them, Fábio nearly drops Mesut on the floor.

“What the hell!” Mesut had the nerve to sound scandalized, holding onto the railings for support. “I’m injured, you asshole.”

“What the fuck was that?” Fábio, on the other hand, had the right to be outraged. “You think it’s funny?”

Mesut grins, feigning innocence. “It was your idea.”

“For you to fake an ankle injury, not act like you just survived a fucking assassination attempt!”

“Pretty good, right?” Mesut actually sounded smug. “I learned a lot from Ángel.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m out to get you!” Fábio tries to shove him, but the German midfielder manages to evade him with stealth.

“It’s true, you know. You’ve always been jealous of me.” Mesut sighs dramatically. “And I can see the tabloids now—Footballer sabotages own teammate, disgraces the beautiful game, gets raped in prison.”

Fábio is practically seething at this point. He could hardly believe that Mesut would play such a dirty trick on him. But then again, it _is_ Mesut, so he’s not sure why he had expected anything different in the first place. 

“Say that again,” Fábio says through gritted teeth, approaching the German almost predatorily, “And I’ll take you out for the entire season.”

Mesut sticks out his tongue as if he’s fucking five years old, before turning on his heel and speeding off in the opposite direction. And naturally, Fábio chases after him.

“I got us out of practice didn’t I?” Mesut says through huffs of breath and laughter. “You should thank me!”

“Oh, I will,” Fábio yells from behind him, “Once I catch you, you’re dead.”

Their chase lasts about two minutes before Mesut turns at a corner and runs himself to a dead end. He slips through the only door available, into an empty laundry room, before skidding to a halt. Fábio, however, doesn’t stop, and lunges himself at the German, causing both of them to topple over into a half empty laundry cart of clean linens. 

Fábio lands on top of Mesut in a tangle of limbs and barely gets a chance to orientate himself before Mesut smacks him across the face with a towel, yelling for him to get off.

Fábio scowls, reaches for a towel as well so maybe he can suffocate the annoying little shit, but his fingers accidentally graze the skin at Mesut’s hipbone, drawing out the most undignified squeak from the German.

And that is precisely when Fábio realizes that Mesut is ticklish, and what better revenge is there than to torture someone to the brink of tears while forcing them to laugh at the same time.

“No, fuck, stop, Fábio, stop, fuck, I hate you!” Mesut manages through bouts of laughter, and tries to curl up into a ball, but Fábio doesn’t let him, fingers teasing the ticklish spots by his stomach. “L-Let’s look for Cris now. We’re supposed to be looking for Cris!”

“Say you’re sorry, you little fucker,” Fábio laughs too, anger dissipating, “Say you’re sorry, and I’ll stop.”

“N-Never,” Mesut tries to muffle himself by turning to his side, but it only makes him more vulnerable. And Fábio shows little mercy as his fingers dig into the soft skin between Mesut’s ribcage, above his hips.

And despite all their ruckus, and the noises of the laundry room itself, Fábio hears approaching voices from outside, and is quick to pin Mesut down, covering his mouth at the same time.

“Be quiet,” he shushes into Mesut’s ear, “I hear someone.”

Mesut stills as well, looking a bit worried as he catches his breath. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Fábio says, focuses all of his concentration on listening, “But they’re not speaking in Spanish. It’s Portuguese. It’s—”

The door of the laundry room slams open, and Fábio ducks down immediately, nearly flattening himself on top of Mesut. Fortunately, the walls of the cart are just tall enough to keep both of them out of sight.

“Again, I’m really sorry about your shirt,” says a voice that is undoubtedly Cristiano’s. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just upset.”

A grunt that is undoubtedly Mourinho’s silences Cristiano, which is soon followed by the clicking sound of metal against plastic as one of the driers latches open.

Fábio and Mesut exchange looks of complete horror.

“I hope it didn’t stain, or anything,” Cris says dejectedly. It’s strange to hear the Portuguese striker, usually so self-assured, sound so small. “I mean, sports drinks are washable, right? My son once spilled it all over me, and I got it to come off—”

“What’s the matter with you, Cristiano,” Mou finally speaks, closing the dryer door with more force than necessary. “Never mind, I know what your problem is. But what do you expect me to do.”

“I don’t know. You’re the coach. You can—”

“You overestimate my capabilities,” Mou says with icy indignation, “My hands are tied. Believe me, if I were given the freedom to do as I wish, I would bench you for the next four games!”

“Can you just listen to me?” Cris remains persistent, and he must be one of the few players on the team who dare to speak to their coach this way. “This isn’t about me—”

“Of course this isn’t about you!” Mou snaps. “This isn’t about anyone, as a matter of fact. It’s about the team. My job is to do what’s best for the team, and yours is to play football. Do your job, Cristiano!”

“You say you care about the team, that the team is the most important. But players make up the team. You can’t ignore that fact.”

“What are you trying to say? No one deserves special treatment.”

“But everyone deserves a chance!”

“I’ve given plenty of chances, and it’s not just me who makes the decisions. If this is a personal issue between you and—”

“It’s not a personal issue!” Cris is yelling as well, and although he is infamous for his tantrums, this time, however, he sounds all the more terrifying— _heart breaking_. “It’s the club—the club, the politics, the unfairness. They’re the reason I’m upset.”

“So you go declaring that to the press, the fans,” Mou reprimands, “What point are you trying to prove. You think you’re being valiant, but you’re jeopardizing the entire club—the success of team—to get what you want. You have a lot of maturing to do.”

There was a long silence before Cris speaks, broken and betrayed. “I can’t believe it. You’re on their side.”

“I’m on no one’s side,” Mou sighs, “But I’m not impervious to reason.”

“Then, you’re a coward.” Cris spits, “Bench me for the next game. I dare you.” And the door slams after that.

The coach doesn’t call after his striker, doesn’t follow him out. He takes his time with his laundry, curses under his breath in Portuguese from time to time, before exiting the room at his own pace.

Fábio waits an entire minute before distancing himself from Mesut. He looks down at the wide-eyed German, before laughing in near disbelief. 

“Shit, I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a reivew :-D


	5. The long walk to self-awareness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad Mesut this chapter. More on Fábio next. Enjoy! :-)

“How’s your ankle?” Sami greets Mesut as the younger German makes his way inside their apartment. 

“My what?” Mesut mumbles absent-mindedly suddenly realizing, “Oh, my ankle! Right. It’s a lot better now. I can play tomorrow.”

“Really?” Sami closes the magazine he had been reading. “Because I went to physio to check up on you, and apparently, you were never registered.”

“Oh.” _Fuck._

Mesut and Fábio didn’t return to training. Mesut had every intention to, but Fábio insisted that they leave right away—so that he can translate everything from Portuguese to Spanish before he forgot—and he was afraid that someone would overhear if they stayed with the club. Mesut had never cut practice before, but reasoned that with all the inexplicable shuffling going on at Real Madrid, nobody would miss them probably. So they snuck back into the locker-rooms for their belongings, before driving off in Mesut’s car, since Fábio still carpools with Cris.

The Potuguese suggested they should go to his house to avoid being recognized in public, and Mesut would have to drop him off there anyway because he didn’t have his car, so they might as well go now. Mesut mumbled something about Fábio being a liability and too cheap to pay for his own gas, but nonetheless made a U-turn at the next intersection. 

It was weird being inside of Fábio’s house, seeing the Portuguese in a domestic setting. His house felt like Cris’s—from the few times Mesut had visited—new and clean, generic and empty, straight out of a catalogue with the exception of a few baby toys scattered on the floor. Fábio was quick to pick them up and dump them somewhere out of sight, excusing himself sheepishly like he was trying to be a good host. 

“My daughter, Vitoria’s,” he explained, “She’s with my wife, visiting her grandparents right now.”

And Mesut found it so strange that _Fábio_ —this stupid hotheaded brat, who follows Cris around like some star-struck kid, and pulls on Messi’s hair during El Clásico—has a _wif_ e, a _daughter_. None of this is news to Mesut, but it just never really clicked in his head until now. Maybe it’s because Fábio still looks like a kid himself, and he’s around the same age as Mesut, and Mesut can’t imagine marrying or starting a family at present. But he decided not to think about it too much—concluding that stupid man-children like Fábio should just be banned from procreation—because it’s just too weird for normal people like Mesut to grasp.

Fábio started from the beginning, explained to Mesut exactly what he had heard—from Mourinho’s soiled shirt to Cris’s outburst that ended the conversation—and from the tiny bits and pieces, Mesut has a good idea of why Cris might be sad now. And it seems so damn obvious that he wonders if everyone already else knew. 

Fábio doesn’t realize it though, because he’s new and clueless and has only been at the club for a season. And Mesut doesn’t tell him because he feels like he has no grounds to say anything really. He’s still a kid compared to the rest of the team, and kids aren’t supposed to worry about these sort of things since they can’t do anything anyway. So they’re supposed to just trust—trust that Mou will handle it, that Iker and Sergio would know what to do when the time comes, that Cris will celebrate his goals again. But it’s hard to stand back and do nothing when everything around you is falling, and Cris is at the center of it, always.

“I left practice early,” Mesut frowns to his roommate, suddenly feeling defensive. “It’s one time.”

“You didn’t fake an injury to get Fábio in trouble, did you?” Sami says as he organizes some of the piles of clutter they have lying around, giving the impression that he’s not actually interested, but Mesut knows he’s probing.

“No, that was just an added bonus.” Mesut snorts, not sure why that sort of upsets him, maybe because even though Sami’s right, he couldn’t be more wrong at the same time. 

“Fábio didn’t return to practice either.” The older German arches an eyebrow, and Mesut stays quiet, mentally notes that he needs to think of better alibis beforehand, if he was going to keep this up—whatever this is—with Fábio.

“Did you and Fábio…go somewhere together?” Sami’s expression is dubious as if he doesn’t quite believe it either, prompting the other rolls his eyes. 

“Ugh, is it really that big of a deal?” 

“What were you guys doing?”

“Nothing. Practice was boring, and we were pretty much just killing time.” Mesut says, hoping that a respectably lengthy response would shroud the fact that he doesn’t actually answer the question. “No one was even paying attention to us, so we left. It’s only one time. We won’t do it again.”

But Sami doesn’t appear convinced at all, and decides to reprimand Mesut using a different approach. “El Mister wasn’t happy with you.” 

And that is enough for Mesut to lower his guard, a glimmer of apprehension briefly washing over his features. “He found out I left?”

“He thought you got hurt.”

“Did he ask physio?”

“Not personally. He asked me to after practice.”

Mesut chews nervously on the corner of his lip. Surely, Sami had covered for him somehow. “What did you tell him?”

“That you were fine,” Sami says, “I texted you about it before I told him.”

“Really?” Mesut instinctively pats the pocket of his jeans for his phone. “I don’t think I ever got—”

“You left your phone at Fábio’s place. He texted me back.”

Mesut looks up at the older German, clearly mortified at what this all heavily insinuates. But Sami merely stares back, eyes half-lidded in a mixture of reproach and disappointment. Disappointment in what, Mesut isn’t exactly sure, maybe because he lied. But Mesut feels the right to be angry too, because Sami had known all along, and even if he had given the younger German the benefit of the doubt, Mesut just hated— _hated_ —being toyed with like a child.

“Don’t make it sound like we were—” Mesut winces, “It’s not—it’s nothing like that.”

“What where you guys doing then?” Sami crosses his arms.

“We weren’t doing anything.” Mesut frowns, ducks his head and tries to push past the other man to the safety of his own room. “Can we just let it go?”

“I know you and Fábio don’t always get along.” Sami grabs onto his elbow, flipping him around. “But if you’re doing _this_ —“ He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “—just to mess with him, to get back at him somehow—”

“No,” Mesut drops his jaw in clear outrage, shrugging his arm away from Sami’s hold. “No, shut up! You don’t know anything!”

“Well, stop acting like you’re hiding some dark secret.” Sami scowls, his voice raising a few decibels. “That’s how people assume the worst.”

“Oh _fuck you_!” Mesut snaps, could hardly believe that Sami—his teammate, friend, best friend even—would accuse him of something so awful. “You actually think I would do that to Fábio? To anyone? I’m so fucking insulted.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong then.” Sami challenges.

“No, I don’t have to answer to anything!” Mesut is nearly screaming now. “It’s none of your business what I do, and you have no right to just— _assume_. For Christ’s sake—leave me alone!”

“I’m just trying to look out for you.” Sami says as a last attempt, strangely guilt-tripping considering Mesut is practically seething. 

“Well, don’t. You’re not my mother.” And he makes sure his bedroom door slams after that.

~~

Mesut keeps to himself during practice the next few days—doesn’t speak unless spoken to, smiles just enough to get by—so that his teammates don’t suspect anything out of ordinary. Ever since their fight, he had avoided Sami like the plague, but it only goes so far since they share an apartment. And Mesut isn’t even that angry anymore. He just doesn’t know how to approach the older German, too proud to be the first to say _I’ve forgiven you already. Have you forgiven me_?

Cris doesn’t miss another practice, but Mesut can tell he’s still not entirely back. Because he and Mesut are practically mirror images right now—mind too occupied, smile too strained, performance too sloppy. And Mourinho yells at both of them, although separately and at different times.

Fábio doesn’t bother him either, probably because he thinks Mesut is mad at him. He had taken the opportunity to send suggestive texts messages to Mesut’s national teammates during his brief custody of the German’s phone. And while Mesut can care less about what Thomas or Marco thinks, the incredibly inappropriate “you, me, handcuffs, and whipped cream: y/y?” to _Miroslav Klose_ definitely crossed the line. And Mesut notes that he will need to get back at the Portuguese defender somehow, once he is not too depressed to function. 

The match against Sevilla was a disaster—a 0-1 loss. Lethargic. That’s the only word Mesut can describe himself with, the way his legs felt like molasses, and the passes just weren’t coming. And it wasn’t like he didn’t try. Everyone was trying—frustrated, wanted to win, wanted redemption—but no luck, no skill, no team. They played like shit, and Mourinho’s wrath wasn’t even the worst of it. 

Mesut keeps an eye out for Cris in the locker-room. The Portuguese striker is sitting on the other side—head bowed, shoulders slumped, fists clutching the bench so tightly that his knuckles are white. But Mesut doesn’t approach him, doesn’t offer comfort or encouragement or understanding, because the seat next to Cris is already filled.

And Fábio corners Mesut during post-match interviews, as the team waits and winces at what El Mister, Iker, and Cris are forced to endure in front of the press.

“What the hell was that?” Fábio pulls on his elbow to get his attention.

“What?” Mesut mumbles, barely meeting the other’s eyes.

“You. What’s wrong with you?”

~~

Mesut sneaks out at night again because insomnia is a bitch. It’s the middle of September, and the night is still warm, but the clouds above are dark and heavy, as if the sky itself threatens to fall. So Mesut throws on a sweatshirt and pulls the hood low over his face, gambling that the sky wouldn’t fall until morning. And although he had every intention to wander aimlessly when he first stepped outside, judging by the turns he took and the streets he crossed, Mesut knows exactly where he will end up by the end of this trip.

Mesut thinks he is incredibly lucky to be at Real Madrid—the Spanish giant, the greatest club in the world. Not to say that he doesn’t deserve to be here—the team was phenomenon last season, and so was he—and when they finally brought the trophy back to the Bernabéu, Mesut _knew_ he had proven his place. 

But things could have easily gone differently, and there are so many what-ifs that it frightens Mesut sometimes, if he dwells on them for so long. What if he didn’t have a successful campaign at the 2010 World Cup, and none of these big clubs ever noticed him? What if Werder Bremen never agreed to sell him for 12 million, opting to milk him for all he’s worth, because it’s Real Madrid after all? And What if Real Madrid signed David Silva instead, knowing the club’s preference for Spanish players? One thing is certain though, that Mesut wouldn’t be half the player he is now, if it weren’t for the Spanish giant. 

Everyone in Germany had cautioned him before he left. _Look at their squad, their bench_ , they had said, _Look at the names, the talent. It’s hard to shine in a sea of stars, Mesut. Think about what you’re giving up_.

And Mesut wonders if he would’ve left so easily, if he hadn’t been young at the time—too hotheaded and optimistic to understand the risks. He was bought by Real Madrid as a substitute, a replacement if something were to go wrong. And it was pure luck—or misfortune depending on whom you are—that Mesut was given the chance to shine. And whatever chance he got, he didn’t waste, because at the end of his first season, Mou had given him the playmaker jersey. Number 10. He was no longer a replacement. He was trusted.

But Mou’s approval wasn’t the only reason why Mesut worked tirelessly to the bone, why he frightened himself so often with those what-ifs. Because he never really understood why Cris had been so good to him—taken a liking to him more than any of the other new signings that year. And even though Mesut barely spoke a word of Spanish when he first arrived, Cris would still sit next to him on trips, stretch with him during training, spoke slow and clear—both English and Spanish—to make sure he understood. And whenever Mesut was fouled on the pitch and couldn’t defend himself because of his poor Spanish, Cris was always close by, imposing himself on the opposition. And not many people dared to challenge him. 

Cris even took Mesut out from time to time in his fancy new cars. Usually, they had dinner. Sometimes they went clothes shopping, and Cris would dress Mesut in whatever he felt was stylish and fitting, and urge him to buy it afterwards, which Mesut had always been too polite to object. But one night after a particularly disappointing home performance, Cris dropped by unannounced, honked his car by the front gate of their apartment until Sami practically kicked Mesut out just so the incessant noise pollution would stop. And Cris took him to a music store that night. It was old and vintage-y, practically a hole in the wall down the shadiest alley possible. Cris must have gone out of his way to find this place, and Mesut was so touched by the gesture, he could have kissed him that night. 

Falling for Cris was probably the least sensible, least professional, least _intentional_ thing to ever happen, but it was happening, and there was nothing Mesut could do.

But Mesut was never one to take anything for granted, always tried to reason things out because nothing just happened on it’s own. And he thought maybe it’s because of the position he played on the pitch—right behind the lone striker, right beside Cris, and he can ghost his way so easily between defenders, pass a brilliant ball through a forest of legs—that Cris liked him, because they synchronized so well. And it wasn’t until the middle of his second season that he realized, perhaps, he served as a replacement in more ways than one. 

Mesut didn’t want to believe it then, opted that he can always work harder to earn his place, just like how he had already earned his position on the team. But after what Cris had said to Mourinho in the laundry room, and how Cris was so easily willing to risk everything for that one person—Mesut thinks that maybe he’s still to young, too optimistic after all.

And Fábio. Mesut doesn’t actually hate him.

Maybe the Portuguese defender came to Real Madrid at an inopportune time, his admiration for Cris so completely apparent and unconditional that it threatened Mesut ever since the beginning. But what annoyed the German the most is how happily clueless Fábio is, content with whatever attention he can get from Cris, without even realizing the dynamics, the misfortunes, the hurt feelings before him. And Mesut figured that it’s easier to be mad at Fábio than to admit that Cris—entitled to his own tragedies and self-denial—has always had his mind set.

And his third season with Real has just been awful so far. With his poor form and the two new signings, even Mesut’s place on the starting XI is under scrutiny. And he doesn’t know which is worse, being replaced in something he had already proven to be a part of, or trying to replace someone he can never be…

Mesut stops at the corner across an old football pitch, a few blocks away from Cris’s house. Cris had brought him here twice before, when kids played football after school. The kids would greet the Portuguese striker enthusiastically, as if seeing Cristiano was nothing out of the ordinary. And Cris would always join them in their matches, let them gang up on him, pretend to be comically upset when he lost the ball. And Mesut would laugh, join as well, and foul Cris unnecessarily just so he could get a half-laugh, half-complaint and a ruffle of the hair. 

But this time, it’s at night. Mesut didn’t expect to find anyone, but Cris is there, curling a free kick into the top right corner of the net. And Mesut doesn’t need to go any closer to recognize the silhouette next to him, touching his shoulder gently, pensively, in a level of understanding that is beyond anyone. 

And this is all the reality-check Mesut will ever need, and he leaves without either of them noticing.

~~

Fábio jerks awake, punching at his sheets, because some douchebag is ringing his doorbell at 1:30 in the fucking morning. And judging by the rhythmic violent beating of rain against glass, it’s practically monsoon-ing outside. There is a flash of lightning before thunder rolls in, and Fábio swears as he makes his way downstairs, that if it’s Marcelo or Pepe playing a prank on him—pretending to be ghosts or aliens or something retarded like that—he will beat them over their heads with his wife’s ugly china lamp without batting an eye.

Because he is _not_ going to fall for it twice. 

But to his surprise as he sneaks open the front door, he finds Mesut on the other side, completely drenched and hugging himself. And Fábio must have been gawking, because the German speaks before he can even process his confusion into words.

“Why are you clutching that lamp like that?” Mesut says through gritted teeth, a drop of water rolling down the bridge of his nose. “Can I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a review :-D


	6. You're sick, aren't you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much editing for these chapters, so they're coming quickly. Enjoy :-)

Fábio tosses Mesut’s soaked clothes into a laundry basket. He glances back at his unexpected guest, who is now sitting at the foot of his bed, stripped down to his underwear and dripping rainwater onto the carpet. Fábio sighs, drops a towel on the German’s lap, and Mesut begins to mechanically dry his hair with it—face blank, eyes heavy, staring into nothing. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Fábio finally breaks the silence and hopes he doesn’t sound too harsh. Because seriously, it’s two in the morning, he’s tired and sleepy, and nothing is making sense right now.

Mesut looks at him sullenly for a moment, as if it was a question that requires contemplation, before responding mutely, “Sami and I aren’t talking.”

And Fábio doubts it’s the truth—the whole truth at least—but he goes along with it anyway. “Why not?”

“He found out about us cutting practice.”

“Who is he, your _mother_?” Fábio snorts, “And that happened a week ago. There’s no way he’d kick you out because of _that_.”

Mesut musters enough life in him to rolls his eyes. “He didn’t kick me out. I left on my own.”

“Why would you do that?” Fábio gestures to the window as a flash of lightning cuts the sky in half. “In this weather? What’s wrong with you?”

“It wasn’t raining this hard when I left.” Mesut mumbles, and tries to wrap himself in that tiny towel—a gesture so out-of-character, so infantilizing, that it stirs up all sorts of sadness in the Portuguese. 

And Fábio thinks it’s probably a good time for Mesut to put on more clothes. 

He sighs, rummages through his dresser for a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before tossing them in the direction of the German. “Here, you can wear these.”

“Thanks,” Mesut mumbles as he pulls the shirt over his head, bangs clinging to his forehead once he emerges. Fábio watches him as he pulls on the pants too.

“Can you please tell me why you’re here?” Fábio blurts out, and what he meant by that was: _why didn’t you go to Sergio, or Karim, or Ángel, or Cris. Why did you come to me? What the hell happened to you? What do you want me to do?_

But Mesut chooses to misunderstand him, takes the literal meaning instead, and deftly avoids answering the actual question. “I needed somewhere to stay.” 

He pauses to see if Fábio would challenge him further, but the Portuguese keeps his mouth shut, stares back in an ambiguous mixture of sympathy and doubt. 

“Can I sleep here tonight?” Mesut asks needlessly, a formal conclusion to their conversation for the night. “The couch is fine.”

“I have a guest room. You can sleep there.”

~~

Next morning, Fábio wakes up exactly at the time he is supposed to wake up, his alarm clock blaring beside his head. He groans, drops his hand on the infuriating machine, before rolling over with every intention of snoozing for the next 20 minutes.

But then, he remembers Mesut sleeping down the hall, and they’ll have to go to practice together, and Mesut probably won’t wake up on time, and what if he likes to spend longer than 15 minutes in the shower, and is he expecting Fábio to make breakfast or something—

“Fuck.” Fábio flips off his covers and sits up, a ray of sunlight creeping through his curtains just in time to hit him in the face. Why the fuck would it be so damn sunny after all that thunder and lightning and rainfall by the buckets?

The Portuguese sluggishly makes his way down the hall, rubbing at his eyes and trying to act more awake so that maybe Mesut won’t see how much of a morning person he isn’t. He knocks on the door twice.

“Hey, Mesut! We have practice in an hour!” 

Mesut doesn’t respond, and Fábio counts to ten before knocking harder. “Hey, are you even listening? It’s time to get up!”

Still, he is greeted with nothing. 

“Luka Modrić’s gonna start ahead of you if you don’t _wake up right now_!”

Ten more seconds pass before Fábio actually starts to worry, reaching for the doorknob hesitantly and turning. “Mesut, are you okay? I’m coming in.”

The German is curled up in the middle of the bed, doing some weird cocoon thing with the sheets so that only the top of his head is showing. Fábio contemplates on whether he should yank off the covers or jump on the mattress, but by the time he gets close for an assault, he hears the most pitiful sound escape from the lump before him.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Fábio pulls at Mesut’s shoulder.

“Fuck, let me sleep.” Mesut groans as he rolls over, stares at Fábio blearily eyed—face-flushed, hair damp, and entire body shivering.

And Fábio didn’t mean to sound so appalled when he gasps out, “Holy fuck, you’re _sick_ , aren’t you?” He was just taken by surprise, honest.

But of course, Mesut takes it the wrong way and makes a rather high-pitched sound of outrage, before wrapping his head under the covers. “Fuck you, get out!”

Fábio stands by the bed dumbfounded, conflicted between apologizing and arguing that Mesut has no right to tell him to get out since it’s _his_ house. But then he remembers his routines for the day and how they are completely scrambled, now that Mesut is sick. So he decides to leave and sort out his life first, before confronting the German again.

Once Fábio reaches the safe confinements of his own room, the first person he calls is Cris, with whom he was supposed to carpool to practice. And the Portuguese striker picks up after two rings, somehow sounding even more disorientated than Fábio is.

“Goddamn it, Fáb,” Cris mumbles groggily as if he had just woken up, “I’m so sorry. I completely—you might want to drive to training yourself today—I’m going to be a little late.”

“Oh, no, no it’s fine,” Fábio quickly divulges, “I was just calling to tell you that you shouldn’t wait for me. Something came up.”

“Oh, okay,” Cris says as his confusion settles, his voice clearer but still low, as if he’s trying to keep the conversation unheard. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want to hold you up. Well, I guess I’ll see you at practice.”

“Yeah—No—Actually, I don’t know if I can go today. I need to uh—I’m not sure yet but—I can’t—” Fábio stutters into the receiver. He can hear Cris laughing on the other end.

“Cutting practice, huh? Well, just make sure you have a good excuse to tell El Mister.”

“Y-Yeah, thanks, I will. See you later. ” Fábio laughs too, uneasily because shit, what is he supposed to say? _Mesut and I decided to have a last minute sleepover, but Mesut got sick from being out in the rain for too long. So I need to stay home to make sure he can make it to the bathroom okay and doesn’t die from dehydration. Please don’t bench us for the rest of our lives. Thanks, Mou_.

And Fábio groans as he throws himself face first into his unmade bed. It is the truth after all, so why does it sound so goddamn unbelievable?

The second person Fábio calls is Sami, because the German probably doesn’t know where Mesut is, so he might be worried. And the moment Fábio hears the Sami’s humorless voice through the speaker, he just _knew_ that this conversation is going to be uncomfortable.

“Hello?”

“H-Hi, Sami, this is Fábio. I just want to say—In case you were wondering—Where is Mesut—he’s with me.” Fábio winces at how broken his Spanish can sound when he’s nervous.

“Mesut is with you?” Sami sounds skeptical, and Fábio rushes to elaborate.

“Yeah, he came over late last night. And he slept here. And he’s not feeling well this morning, so he can’t go to practice today. Can you tell El Mister that?”

His response is greeted with a long period of silence, so long that Fábio has to check his phone twice to make sure the call didn’t break up. He wonders if he had said something wrong.

“…Why doesn’t he feel well?” Sami finally says, warily as if he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“Oh, he’s sick,” Fábio replies easily, wondering maybe this is what he should have said in the first place, “He was outside in the rain, and he got sick.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you for telling me.” Sami returns—formal and awkward—a clear indication that this conversation needs to end. 

But Fábio has never been one to read the mood, so he adds rather needlessly (although it seemed perfectly fine at the time), “It was my idea for us to skip practice before Sevilla. You shouldn’t blame it all on Mesut. He seems really sad, and—at least—I think that’s one reason why he’s sad.”

“Right.”

“But this time, he actually is sick.” And Fábio wonders how such a listless one-word response can make him doubt himself so much. “We’re not doing this to skip practice again, I promise.”

No response.

“I can send you a picture if you want!” Fábio cries out, and it’s just word vomit at this point. “I swear, he is _sick_. He looks _awful_!” 

“It’s fine. I believe you.” Sami says coolly, and Fábio’s jaws snap shut. “Again, thank you for telling me and looking after him. I’ll see you around.”

“No problem, b-bye.” Fábio manages before the call ends. And he takes a moment to stare disbelievingly at his phone, as if his life has been shortened somehow by this unwanted exchange.

The final person Fábio calls is Pepe, because whenever he is having an anxiety attack such as now, Pepe has always been his go-to person, his voice of reason, his shoulder to cry on, or something sad-but-true like that. The call rings three times, before Fábio hears a voice on the other end.

“Hello, Pepe’s phone. Marcelo speaking.”

And Fábio doesn’t know why he feels outraged by this. “What the hell? Put Pepe on!”

“He’s with Sergio right now,” Marcelo says rather cheerily, “Luka’s trying to tell them something but can’t find the words in Spanish. Kind of cute, really. Reminds me of Lassie.” 

Fábio groans, drags his hand down his face. 

“Yeah…so it might take awhile,” the Brazilian defender continues, “What do you need? Maybe I can help.”

And Fábio hesitates, weighs his options before realizing he has none, so he drops his voice to a low whisper, hoping to hint at a need for discreetness. “Mesut came over last night during the rain, and now he’s sick. In my _house_.”

“Why did he come over?” He can almost feel Marcelo’s bemusement through the phone.

“I think he might be going through a hard time or something.” Fábio chooses his words wisely, doesn’t want to spread any unnecessary rumors. “Don’t know any specifics. And don't tell anyone.”

“But why did he come to you?” 

“I guess we’re kind of—friends—now.” Fábio winces at how odd that sounds. “Nevermind, I take that back. I don’t know why he’s here.”

The Brazilian cackles. “Sounds like you’re having a bad case of post-sex regret. Did you take advantage of him or something?”

“No, gross! Why would you say that? I hate you!” Fábio hisses into the phone. “Can we please focus?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. How sick is he?”

“ _Really sick_. Maybe I should take him to the hospital.”

There was a brief pause before Marcelo responds in the most solemnly thoughtful tone he can muster. “No, no, don’t do that.”

“What do you mean _no_?” Fábio cries out in disbelief, “That’s the most obviously logical thing to do!”

“Hold on. I’m the father of a small child. I can handle this.”

“You—What? That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Just tell me the symptoms.” Marcelo says sternly, and Fábio rolls his eyes but dutifully abides, nonetheless.

“Sweating. Chills. Fatigue probably. Fever probably. I don’t know—should I check on him again?”

“No, no, it’s good.” Marcelo mumbles into the receiver, evidently deep in thought. “Does he have a stomach ache?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. He’s all curled up when I found him.”

“Poor appetite?”

“No, should I ask?”

“Vomit?”

“Fuck, he better not.”

“Red blotches all over his body?”

“On his _face_ —around his eyes—but he gets like that after a match too, so I don’t think they mean anything.”

“Ah, okay.” Marcelo hums thoughtfully, as if he actually has any credibility in these kinds of things. “Is his liver enlarged?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that?” Fábio feels his patience thinning. “Look Marcelo, I really don’t have time—”

“Oh, no.” The Brazilian gulps, dread evident in his voice, and Fábio actually feels concerned in that moment. 

“What?” 

“Mesut has typhoid fever.” 

Fábio howls in frustration. “God damnit, are you googling this?”

“I’m almost certain that Mesut has typhoid fever.” The Brazilian repeats himself. “Quarantine him and culture his stool. And no, yahoo answers.”

Fábio shakes his head, stares up at his ceiling in disbelief. “I don’t know—I don’t know why I’d expect anything different from you.”

Marcelo laughs again, and Fábio wonders how the Brazilian can find so much amusement in his own joke when no one is even laughing with him. “Give him a Tylenol or something. I’m sure he’s fine."

"Yeah, yeah." The Portuguese mumbles, shoves his face into a nearby pillow.

"I’ll pass the word along to El Mister, that you’re going to stay home today." Marcelo says, his voice placid now, gentler. "Don't worry so much. See you tomorrow.”

Fábio rubs at his eyes, exhausted. He still has no idea how he can possibly make it through the day with a sick Mesut in the house—bitchier than ever, probably. But then he remembers Mesut from the night before—all sighs and sullen eyes—and suddenly, he feel worried again. But he doesn't tell Marcelo this—feel as if he has no the grounds to reach any formal conclusion—so he mutters a subdued, “Yeah, thanks, bye,” instead.

“What the fuck! Quit messing with my phone!” He hears an angry Pepe in the distance, followed by some undignified screaming and breaking of things, before the call finally ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a review <3


	7. To love both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another dose of Fabzil! Enjoy :-)

Fábio doesn't get it, doesn't get it at all. Mesut might very well be the most annoyingly difficult sick person to be around, _ever_. And it's infuriating because Fábio is actually trying to be nice to him, to help out the ungrateful little shit. But Mesut—sharp-tongued and bitch-faced, as always—would have absolutely none of it. And Fábio thinks that Mesut is _fine_ —he must be—if he can muster enough strength to be this goddamn awful.

But Mesut isn’t fine. Something definitely is not clicking because they are fighting too much (believe it or not), bickering over the most trivial of things that would never induce an argument if everything were indeed okay. 

And Fábio thinks back on what he could’ve done differently. Was he not supposed to excuse both of them from practice? Because Mesut practically exploded after he was told the news. Who cares if everyone knows that he is sick in Fábio's house? It's the truth anyway. How else was Fábio going to explain both of their absence for the second time? 

But after that incident, anything he tries to do for Mesut—for the sake of the German's own welfare, might he add¬¬—was greeted with hostility and dismissal. And it really shouldn't be this hard to get Mesut to take his temperature, to drink soup, to do stuff sick people should logically do in order to get better.

Mesut is definitely doing this on purpose, making life more difficult than it ever should be. And it's obvious he doesn't want to be here either—sick in Fábio's house, with Fábio. So why doesn't he just leave? He is fully capable and welcomed to walk out any time he pleases. No one is stopping him.

Fábio is honestly at a loss. And no matter how hard he tries, he never seems to do anything right, or come any closer to figuring the German out. Nothing is ever easy when it comes to Mesut, he solemnly concludes at the end of a long day.

“Are you still cold?” The Portuguese piles another blanket on top of his guest, who has been curled up into a ball beneath three layers of insulation for the past two hours, at least.

Mesut mumbles something that Fábio doesn’t quite catch.

"Are you hungry?" Fábio tries again. "Thirsty? Do you want to shower again?"

Mesut groans, squirms a little so that his head can peak out from underneath the covers. He glares at the defender peevishly, ready to tell him off, but Fábio cuts him off before he can speak.

"Do you want to go home?" Fábio says, and it's the first time he has suggested that, perhaps, Mesut should leave. He had refrained from doing so before, doesn't want Mesut to get the wrong idea, because despite how obstinate the German can be, any teammate of his is always welcomed to stay. And Fábio had thought that maybe―as long as he gives Mesut the time and space he needs—the German would eventually open up. But it's late afternoon already. Practice would've been over if they had actually gone. And undoubtedly, Sami would be back in their apartment by now. So Fábio reasons that if he can't be the one to help Mesut, then the German has no point in staying. There are many more eligible people who can listen, understand, and take care of him.

"Do you need me to leave?" Mesut says mutely, and for once, he doesn't seem in the mood to argue. And if Fábio had said yes, he surely would have gone. 

"If you need someone to talk to―that's not me―you should go." Fábio tries his best to sound sympathetic, but it's hard, because it's Mesut. "It doesn't help if you're here with me, and I have no idea what's wrong with you, and I can't do anything to help, and you hate me, and―"

The defender isn't sure if it’s something he had said, but Mesut breathes a laugh―quiet and subdued, but a laugh nonetheless—which is definitely unexpected. 

"What's so funny?" Fábio wrinkles his brows, perhaps sounding more defensive than he intended. But Mesut doesn't actually respond, rolling onto his back and away from the Portuguese defender, leaving half of the bed vacant. Fábio isn't sure if it's an invitation to sit and talk.

"Can I―" Mesut begins, dragging out the syllables as he mulls over his words. "Why did you come to Madrid?"

"Why did I come?" Fábio answers without really thinking. "Well, Benfica needed the money, and Real offered it, in exchange for me."

"You came here because Real bought you, I know that." Mesut tilts his head towards Fábio, looks at him as if he were inane. "I'm asking what made you decide to. Personally."

"I―uh―" Fábio stumbles over his response, feels as if he's under the spotlight during interviews again. "Well, I love Benfica. I'll never abandon them in my heart. But they needed the money, and if what's best for the club was for me to leave for now, then that's fine. Also, it was Real who made the offer, and that helped too. Who wouldn't want to be at Real Madrid?"

Mesut doesn't meet his eyes, looking contemplatively at the ceiling instead. "Would you still have left if Benfica didn't need you to?"

"I don't know. It's hard to say." Fábio rubs uneasily at his neck, before deciding to sit on the bed after all. "Real Madrid, the biggest club in the world, I never even dreamed of being here. But now that I am, I love everything about it. I don't regret coming at all. But Benfica will always be something special. I'd like to go back before I retire, win trophies with them too."

"Which do you love more though? Benfica or Real?" 

"I love them both."

"But you're at Real now."

"Yeah, but just because I'm at Real doesn't mean I have to love Benfica any less. They're different, so it's hard to compare. I love them differently."

A brief moment of silence passes, before Mesut speaks again. "I don't think I understand."

"Well―Okay―Benfica is like―" Fábio takes a deep breath, and attempts to formulate into words all these feelings he had never really considered before, had simply accepted them for what they are. "I don't know―Benfica is Portugal, home―a first love."

Fábio winces at how cliché it sounds, and Mesut must have thought the same. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, well, it's true in that―" Fábio feels a blush creeping to his ears and cheeks. "It's not something you forget about. A first love. I married my first love, you know?"

Mesut looks to him with a dubious expression, which Fábio isn’t sure how to interpret, so he ends up elaborating needlessly. "My wife. I have a wife."

"I know." Mesut responds right away. "So, what is Real Madrid then?"

"What?" Fábio blinks, caught out and hadn’t really expected this odd analogy to last. 

"If Benfica is like a first love," Mesut repeats, "What is Real Madrid?"

"Well, a different kind of love, I guess, Real Madrid," Fábio answers awkwardly, unsure if he sounds insane or stupid. But Mesut actually seems uncharacteristically interested in what he has to say, so he feels obliged to continue. "A new love. Something irresistible and thrilling that you can't avoid or ignore, just like how you can't forget your first love."

"And it's okay to love both?"

"I don't know what you mean by okay," the Portuguese tenses, feeling a whole new level of discomfort now that he realizes they’re probably not just talking about Benfica and Real Madrid, after all. "But it's possible to have both. It's natural to, or at least that's what I think. They're different."

"I see." Mesut says quietly, and all the while Fábio had expected some sort of reprimand or scorn. "But I don't think―I can feel that way."

"What? But you've had a first love, right?" Fábio returns to speaking without thinking again and mentally smacks himself for sounding so prying, and insensitive, and stupid.

"Are we talking about clubs or people?" Mesut only laughs.

"Umm...Both?"

"Okay," the German says, looking to the ceiling again as he shares his half of this bizarre heart-to-heart. "When I left Werder Bremen I said that there was no decision to make, that Real Madrid wasn't a club you said no to. And now, after two seasons, I think I want to stay as long as I can―if possible, until I retire. I wouldn't say that I've forgotten about Bremen or Schalke, but Real―there is no match for Real. I don't want to be anywhere but here."

Mesut trails off, and Fábio is probably staring at him more intensely than he should, because there is still a half of the question unanswered, and naturally, Fábio finds this half to be the more interesting of the two. 

And Mesut must have read his mind, lips curving to a small grin before opting to continue. "And I was engaged before I came to Spain, but she wasn't willing to leave Germany, to give up everything like I was―And I haven't talked to her in a long time."

"Do you still love her?"

"No, I don't think―" Mesut winces a little. "Can you really call it love if it lasted for such a short time, when you were young and didn’t know better? I don't think I've ever been in love. It's not easy, for me."

And Fábio doesn't know why he would feel sorry to hear that, doesn't know how he should even respond, so he says what he believes is the safest. "Maybe, you're just holding yourself back."

Mesut laughs again―this time sadder, somehow. "Maybe. But it would be so much worse if I didn't."

~~

Mesut ends up staying for another night, which is fine, Fábio doesn't mind. He wakes up the next morning before the Portuguese even knocks on the door, looking and feeling a lot better. His fever subsided, and he no longer has the chills, but he is still sneezing and coughing―weak and wobbly from the cold medicine―so he probably will miss another day of practice. Fábio offers to stay with him, but Mesut insists that he doesn't.

"Go to practice," he says as they eat breakfast downstairs in the kitchen. Mesut is well enough to walk around, although he still wraps a blanket around himself wherever he goes. "We have practice again today. You should go."

"But you're sick," Fábio responds in mild surprise, his fork halfway between his plate and mouth.

"I know." Mesut rolls his eyes. "Just leave me here. I promise I won't touch any of your things."

"You sure?" Fábio frowns in uncertainty. 

"I can take care of myself."

~~

It's hard to argue with Mesut when he's persistent, so Fábio does what he is told, calls Cris just in time to hitch a ride to practice. He mumbles an apology for the short notice before settling himself in the passenger seat. And Cris―with his elbow on the armrest and chin against his palm, his eyes hooded and heavy―barely even looks at Fábio, as he mechanically backs out of the driveway.

And this was all a sudden reminder to the young left-back―Cris's inexplicable sadness, his argument with Mourinho during practice, the unforgiving media and transfer rumors, Real Madrid's awful form, their loss to Sevilla two days ago, the eight points behind Barcelona on the league table, their Championship League opener against Manchester City ( _holy fuck that's in three days_!).

And it all hits Fábio like a freight train, and he can't believe he had nearly forgotten just because―of _Mesut_ , and his stupid cold, and sadness, and melancholy eyes. 

But now, it's back to the real world, and Fábio has to go to practice, sit in the car with a dejected-looking Cris, and probably face the wrath of Mourinho for his absence. He wonders if Marcelo had properly delivered his message to their coach yesterday, or if anyone would even take what Marcelo says seriously, or―

"What's the matter with you?" Cris says, brows furrowed but gaze still steady on the road.

Fábio realizes he must’ve been groaning out loud, before mumbling a subdued, "Nothing. How was practice yesterday?"

"Oh, right, you weren't there," Cris responds, a hint of a grin on his lips, "It was―uh―intense."

"Intense?"

"Yeah," Cris shakes his head, "El Mister. He's gone insane. And I don't blame him, either. We're eight points behind. We're playing like shit. He has the right to be mad."

"It's only the beginning of the season," Fábio promptly recites his encouragements, like always whenever Cris shows any sign of despondency. "We haven't lost the trophy yet. We can still make up for it." 

And Cris laughs, reaches over to pinch Fábio on the cheek teasingly. "You're awfully optimistic for someone who's barely played. How many more matches until you serve your ban? Two? One?"

"One," Fábio bats Cris's hand away and pretends to be insulted. "Stop it, it's not funny. I hate it."

"I know," Cris reaches over despite the previous assault, ruffles Fábio's spiky blonde hair instead. "It'll be over soon. Hang in there."

"Yeah." Fábio sinks into his seat and looks out the window at the trees and houses they pass by. He counts to five before building enough courage to ask, "So, how are you?"

"How am I?" Cris sounds confused and turns to Fábio when they hit a red light. Fábio stares back with so much intent, that it doesn't take the striker more than two seconds to realize what Fábio actually means. 

Cris smiles again, and Fábio can tell how much more strained it is this time. "Great. Ready to take on the world. But Man City first."

And Fábio signs, deciding that one thing Cris and Mesut have in common at least, is that they never seem to say what's actually on their mind.

~~

Cris really wasn't kidding about Mourinho's insanity, because within the time span of one night, he had devised boot-camp-like training regimes for every single one of his players—specifically tailored to their positions, styles, personality-types, and whatnot. And because Fábio had missed the first day, he is making up every minute of it now. Mou has him running laps before his teammates even finished changing.

"Shit, I'm so fucking scared." Fábio hisses as he catches up to Marcelo, who had recently began sprinting as well. "What did you say to El Mister yesterday? Why is he so mad at me?"

"I told him exactly what you told me, I swear." Marcelo responds hastily, eyes wide and honest, "And it's not just you. He's like that with everyone since the loss."

Fábio groans. "Why are we sucking so much? I don't get it." 

"I don't get it either," Marcelo shrugs as they jog past the benches where Mou has pulled Cris aside for a word alone, _again_. 

"Mesut's going to be more fucked than I am," Fábio says once they are at a safe distance again. "He's not coming today either."

Marcelo scrunches his nose in thought. "He's still sick at your house?"

"Yeah, it's ridiculous."

"Why doesn't he go back to his place? Is he _that_ sick?"

"Not really. He's a lot better today."

"Did something happen between him and Sami?"

"Maybe." 

Both Fábio and Marcelo turn to sneak a glance at Sami, who is on the other end of the pitch, stretching with Xabi and Luka. And of course, Sami stares right back at them.

"I can't tell if he hates you, or that's just the way he looks." Marcelo muses, continues to look in that direction despite Fábio's protest for him to quit being so goddamn obvious.

"Why would he hate me?" Fábio frowns. "I’ve never done anything to him."

"Maybe he doesn't want you all over his little German buddy."

"God, I hope you're still talking about Mesut."

And that's enough for Marcelo to burst out laughing, his voice echoing across the mostly silent training ground. And Fábio laughs too, although more subdued, and tries to tell the Brazilian to shut up before Mourinho hears and deems them too happy for his liking. 

"Yes, I meant Mesut," Marcelo rubs at the corner of his eyes, face still split in a goofy smile. "But I wouldn't go there either, if I were you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much! Please leave a review <3


	8. Never again, do I want to feel this way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm surprised at how much I had managed to write the first time around. Maybe four more chapters until things slow down a bit, since I'd be writing new things. Enjoy <3

Fábio comes home after practice, his limbs numb and feeling like spaghetti. It’s a quarter passed five, and the sun is low in the sky, painting everything below in hues of red and orange. He walks up the steps leading to his front porch; the lights in his house are on, glowing dimly behind the shutters. He turns his key and opens the door slowly—cautiously—because Mesut is inside, and he had left him there all day, and he's not sure what to expect, or if he should be expecting anything.

And he finds it so strange to see Mesut walking about the kitchen barefoot, his hair wet and slicked back from a recent shower. He's wearing his own clothes now―the black long-sleeved shirt and sweat pants low on his hips. His hoodie is draped over one of the chairs in the kitchen. The German barely looks up as Fábio walks through the door.

"Hey, I'm back from practice," Fábio greets lamely.

"I washed the sheets and blankets," Mesut responds as he fumbles around in the kitchen—actually _cooking_. "I washed the clothes, the dishes. I disinfected every surface I touched so everything should be good as before."

"I―uh," Fábio stutters as his mind draws a blank, "You didn't have to."

The German rolls his eyes as if to say cut the formalities, we're beyond that, before opening the cabinets and taking out cups, plates, and utensils. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No?"

And that's how they end up having dinner together, dinner prepared by Mesut―a simple German dish with chicken and potatoes and bell peppers—and it probably doesn't taste anything like how it should taste, because Mesut had to make do with what's in Fábio's fridge. 

"Do you like it?" The German reluctantly asks, as if it's his turn to bear the burden of initiating conversation. "I don't really cook much."

"Yeah, I do. It's fine." Fábio swallows hastily before responding. “I'm not picky, anyway.”

“Okay.” Mesut nods, rubs at his nose a little, which is still slightly red from the cold. “How was training? Are we ready for Man City?”

“Of course we are,” Fábio snorts, “We can take on anyone. We’re still the Spanish Champions. We’re still the same team.”

“How’s Cris?” 

“Uh, he seems fine.” Fábio winces a little because he honestly doesn’t know. He barely even got a chance to talk to the Portuguese striker today, aside from their carpool to and from practice. And even then, the atmosphere was tense and the silence had never felt so long. 

“He seems like he has a lot on his mind,” he elaborates, “El Mister pulled him aside a lot. They didn’t fight or anything though. Just talked.”

Mesut looks down at his dinner plate, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks, and he just looks so sad that Fábio doesn’t even know what to do. So he attempts to be reassuring. “Whatever Cris is going through, he getting through it at least. He goes to practice. He works hard. He’s still the same Cris. I don’t think he will leave.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, it’s not like anyone wants him to leave,” Fábio insists. “He has the support of the team and the loyalty of the fans. We can help him.”

“But if he’s not happy, and if he won’t ever be happy—here, at least—he might as well go.” 

“What are you trying to say,” Fábio laughs a little, because he can hardly believe what he’s hearing. How can Mesut even fathom a reason for why Cris should leave? He had been so determined to help the Portuguese striker—just as determined as Fábio had been—when Cris first declared his sadness to the public. So what changed? Why does Mesut sound like he’s giving up?

“Cris won’t leave,” Fábio repeats, “He has friends here who love him. We are like family.”

“It’s not about us. It’s him, and the club, and—“

“He’s the best footballer in the world,” Fábio interjects, “And the best players play for Real. The club will keep him—keep us together—as long as we have something to offer. And we still have a lot to offer.”

Mesut looks like he wants so say something too, but Fábio doesn’t give him the chance to, “So he’s going through a hard time. It can happen to anyone. But that’s why we’re here, right? We’re supposed to help him, just like he would help us. He will be happy again.”

“What if it can’t be helped?” Mesut blurts out, finally, “What if the only way for him to be happy is to leave? Shouldn’t we accept it, then?”

Fábio furrows his brows—still unsure of where Mesut is going, why he is so much more pessimistic today, even by his standards. “Well, we have to find out what his problem is first before we decide whether we can help or not—”

Mesut grimaces as if Fábio had struck a nerve, and suddenly, everything just seem to click inside Fábio’s brain. “You know!” The Portuguese gasps, “You know why Cris is sad!”

Mesut doesn’t deny it.

“You do know!” Fábio is practically screaming, more out of shock than accusation. “Since when? And how? Are you going to tell me?”

“Why do you think I came here in the first place?” Mesut laughs uneasily, fidgets with the glass of water in his palms. 

Fábio doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to risk another outburst, so he stares expectantly at Mesut instead, urging him to continue. 

Mesut sighs. “I’m not entirely sure, but I know—at least—who he is sad about.”

“Who?”

Mesut looks up from his plate and at Fábio, his eyes dark, and opaque, and searching. He licks his lips in apprehension, as if he still doesn’t quite know how to get the words out, so Fábio waits with patient silence, hoping Mesut will interpret it all as encouragement.

“Ricky,” Mesut finally says, voice barely a whisper. “It’s Ricky.”

“What’s wrong with Ricky?” Fábio asks, still not quite getting it, and if Mesut weren’t so depressed, he surely would have reprimanded the Portuguese for his obliviousness. 

“Nothing is wrong with him, except that—” Mesut swallows in discomfort, looks away again, “Perhaps he doesn’t—or the club doesn’t think he has—as much to offer anymore.”

Fábio leans back into his seat as the information sinks in, feeling awkward and tongue-tied as well. It’s not something they usually discuss with each other—the business end of the sport. Players come and go with every season. It’s an integral part their job, because football is as much of a business as it is a sport. And no one player is greater than the club, the team. They all understand that.

But still, it never seems fair when players are told to leave—from Esteban who had devoted everything to the club, to Nuri who barely got a chance to show his worth. 

And of course, the press makes everything worse, unforgivingly treats privacy as if it’s an overrated luxury. And with all the rumors constantly circling, and all the potential deals eventually amassing to nothing, players are always advised to not think about any of it, until the time actually comes. For the sake of both team unity and individual mental well-being.

But perhaps, that’s not always the best approach, keeping the inevitable in the back of your mind and hidden. Because when the time comes, some will take it much harder than others. And Fábio can personally attest to that—can never forget the look of indignation in Pipita’s eyes for months after the Portuguese defender had first arrived in Madrid—because Ezequiel Garay had been part of his deal with Benfica. He left so Fábio could come. 

And it makes sense that Ricky might be leaving after his lackluster season. Mou even said he could leave if he received a reasonable offer during the summer transfer. But Ricky ended up staying, and he has played even fewer minutes than Fábio has, and Fábio is still on his four-match ban. 

And Cris. Cris and Ricky were both Ballon d’Or winners, the best players of the year. They came to Real Madrid together. They had been practically inseparable. 

Fábio watches Mesut as he listlessly picks at his food, and wonders maybe the German is feeling guilty since he and Ricky play the same position. But Mesut shouldn’t feel this way because he hasn’t done anything wrong. He has every right to compete for that position, just how Karim and Pipita compete for the center forward role, and Marcelo and Fábio for left back. It’s demanding, and intense, and cruel sometimes, but it’s nothing new. Mesut shouldn’t be beating himself over when it’s still early in the season, when nothing is written in stone.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Fábio smiles a little, tries to lighten the mood. “There are plenty of chances left in the year, let alone the season, and I’m sure Ricky will get his. He’s a world-class player, and he deserves to stay. The club will see it too.”

“You think so?” Mesut hums. 

“Yeah, and besides,” Fábio continues, “I know Cris and Ricky and good friends, and he would be sad if Ricky leaves. But even if the worst were to happen, Cris isn’t just going to drop everything and walk out too. He is a professional. He knows how to handle these kinds of things. And there are other people who care about him. We are his friends too.”

“No, no you don’t get it,” Mesut shakes his head, pain etched all over his wary expression. “It’s not the same.”

“What do you mean?” Fábio feels an odd mixture of apprehension and embarrassment because he seems to have missed the mark completely. 

“Because Cris loves Ricky. He still does. He never stopped.”

~~

Fábio takes the news a lot better than Mesut had expected. He doesn’t seem too upset, or heart-broken, or anything like that. Just embarrassed he hadn’t realized it sooner, and disheartened now that he fully comprehends the intricacy of the situation—that it’s not just about Cris but Ricky too, the club, the politics, the business, interlaced with something as delicate as love. It’s definitely out of their league.

Mesut had been worried about how the Portuguese would react, and spent two days mulling over the right approach. And now, he feels stupid for doing so because Fábio seems fine. And maybe it’s because he can love so easily, so _unconditionally_ , that it doesn’t matter if Cris loves Ricky—Ricky with his bright eyes, and infectious smile, and kindness, patience, and understanding—Cris and Ricky. Practically written in the stars.

“So what are we going to do now?” Fábio asks as they finish the last bits of their dinner.

“Nothing.” Mesut sighs, stacking up their plates as he clears the table.

“Nothing?” Fábio stands up immediately, and grabs onto both of their cups before Mesut gets a chance to himself. He follows the German to the sink. “We can’t just give up.”

“I care about Cris a lot,” Mesut says as he turns on the water. Fábio tells him not to worry about the dishes, but he shrugs the Portuguese off. He rinses off the dishes before setting them inside dishwasher, determined to leave this place as if he had never came. “I want him to be happy. I want him to stay at Real. But there’s nothing we can do.”

“What are you talking about?” Fábio argues back, “We barely know anything! We can still prevent this if we—”

“It’s between him and Ricky,” Mesut says stiffly, “It’s too intimate and personal—I don’t think I can keep going on like this. I don’t want to find out anymore.”

“So you’re just going to wait and see what happens?” 

“There’s nothing we can do if the club decides to let him go—”

“But you don’t know that!” Fábio raises his voice, clearly frustrated. “You don’t know anything for sure. So we heard Cris and El Mister arguing over chances at the club, and you saw Cris and Ricky together at the pitch that night—”

“It’s not that hard to connect the dots,” Mesut is starting to get annoyed too, “It’s between them. It’s love. And business. We have no place in any of that.”

Fábio makes an exasperated sound as if he still wants to argue but holds himself back instead. They don’t talk until Mesut is drying his hands on a towel. 

“You can stay for another night if you want,” Fábio says awkwardly, as if he already knows the answer to the question. 

“No, it’s fine,” the German politely declines, “I’ve stayed long enough.”

~~

“You were right,” Mesut announces, as he steps through the door of his and Sami’s shared apartment. Sami is sitting on the couch reading a magazine. He looks mildly surprised since they haven’t even seen each other for the past two days. And even before that—because of their heated argument—things had never been quite the same between the two Germans.

“You were right.” Mesut repeats as he closes the door behind him. “About one thing at least—about Cris—that nothing good can come from me wanting to…”

He grunts as he kicks off his shoes, struggles to keep balance as he throws them against the corner by the door. “I should have listened to you, but I don’t regret that I didn’t. Thank you—Thank you for looking out for me all the time, but you shouldn’t worry so much. I know you’re right, you’re always right, but I need to figure things out for myself. And it might seem stupid to you, but it’s something I have to do. Just—please, I don’t know—understand that. I want to—I _can_ take care of myself.”

Mesut isn’t sure if he sounds completely unreasonable, but this is the closest to an apology he can get, and he hopes Sami realizes that it was hard for him to even get this far, and he just wants everything to be okay again. 

The silence hangs heavily between them, and it lasts too long to be comfortable. Mesut can’t seem to find the courage to meet Sami’s eyes, but the older German eventually speaks first—his voice calm and punctual—which Mesut will gladly interpret as acceptance.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, and Mesut isn’t entirely sure what he is referring to—about Cris, about his cold, about anything and everything that’s going wrong in his life right now?

So Mesut responds just as vaguely, walking past the older German and towards his own bedroom. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

He goes to sleep early and doesn’t dream.

~~

Sami knocks on his door promptly at 9:30AM. He makes breakfast for both of them, and they eat together, discussing neutral topics like World Cup Qualifiers and upcoming derbies. They’re not completely back to normal yet because they’re still too careful with words, and Mesut feels guilty for not telling Sami what he had been doing since Cris had announced his sadness to the world. Because Sami would never approved of their plan, would’ve have talked Mesut out of it a long time ago, if he had known.

They have two days of rest before their big opener against Man City in the Championship League. Mesut hardly remembers any of it, as he waits in the dressing room of the Bernabéu. 

He doesn’t start this match. And neither does Fábio since they both had missed practice the days before. So El Mister gives Marcelo and Michael Essien the nod ahead of them, and Mesut feels guilty again because Fábio had taken that day off because of him. Fábio really wanted to play today, the German can tell. After all, he hasn’t been called up for so long since his ban in the Spanish league, and this is one of the few matches he could’ve actually participated in. But instead, he’s on the bench next to Mesut—perched at the edge of his seat, teeth sinking nervously into his bottom lip every time Real Madrid misses another chance—and it just wasn’t fair.

Mesut sneaks a glance at his right where Ricky is sitting two seats away, eyes hooded and heavy. And Mesut thinks no one deserves to be treated like this, especially not Ricky—the jewel of Milan, who scored in the World Cup for Brazil, who won the Ballon d’Or in 2007—Ricky, whom Mesut saw on the covers of magazines when he was a teenager, whom he had dreamed of playing alongside with one day. And now, the Ricky sitting before him is merely a shadow of his former self, and his past injuries are not all to blame.

The first half remained scoreless despite the chances Real managed to created, and City strikes back harder the second half, looking more and more dangerous with each counterattack. Mou is standing at the edge of his box, yelling at his defenders to get back into their positions. And it doesn’t take long before he returns to the bench, scowling in disapproval at his substitutes. 

He points at Karim first to warm-up, and then Luka, before eyeing back and forth between his two maestros. And Mesut thinks that he _has_ to pick Ricky because Mesut had missed the last two days of practice—still slightly congested because of his cold—while Ricky has been working hard, is healthy, is ready to play

But Mou doesn’t pick Ricky, tells Mesut to warm-up instead, and Mesut is so dumbfounded by the decision that he doesn’t even move until Fábio practically shoves him out of his seat. 

“What are you waiting for?” Fábio whispers as he pats Mesut on the back harder than necessary. “Go warm-up and save our asses.”

Mourinho introduces Mesut in the 65th minute, replacing Essien. The Ghanaian midfielder quickly jogs across the pitch and gives Mesut a half-hug, wishing him luck. 

City scores three minutes later. Mesut barely got a touch of the ball before his cross was cut out and fell to a City midfielder. After a series of unsuccessful tackles, City manages to break, and the entire Bernabéu falls silent as Iker loses in the one on one, the ball burying in the back of the net.

And Mesut feels as if he has fallen into ice water. It wasn’t his fault, it really wasn’t. Real has been dominating until now, and it’s bad luck—pure misfortune—that City is ahead. He can feel his hands shake as he stands in the center of the field with Pipita. The Argentinian reaches over and squeezes his shoulder, tells him to calm down, tells him it’s okay. And Mesut hears Fábio at the bench yelling “Vamos!” at the top of his lungs, just as the referee blows the whistle for kick-off. 

It doesn’t take long for Real to equalize, a powerful shot from Marcelo took a deflection past the keeper. But their hearts sank again when Xabi misjudges a City free kick, the ball evading everyone including Iker as it curls into the bottom corner. Karim manages to equalize again in the 87th minute, after Ángel dribbles pass several defenders and slides in an elegant through ball for the Frenchman to strike on the turn. 

And of course, it had to be Cris who scores the winning goal—a minute into overtime—the powerful shot dipping right in front of the keeper before bouncing into the back of the net. The Bernabéu goes wild as Cris slides to his knees, his teammates soon piling on top of him on heaps. Mesut joins too, plasters himself on Álvaro’s back as Karim ruffles his hair. Marcelo and Pepe are screaming with the crowd, urging them to cheer even louder. And Cris—still lying in the grass—panting and smiling wildly at his teammates above. They hug him and pull at his arms and legs, before helping him to his feet.

Mesut missed this, missed this so much since the end of last season when everything had been nothing short of perfection. And after seeing Cris and everyone else so relieved, exhilarated, and undoubtedly happy, he never wants to miss it again.

And that’s what he tells Fábio in the locker room amidst the post match celebration, that he had changed his mind because he can’t just sit here and do nothing and hope the worst doesn’t happen to their perfect team. They are too important to him. Cris is too important. And even if the odds are against them, and they probably won’t make a difference in the end, at least they would’ve tried. There’s some comfort in that.

Fábio laughs as Mesut trails off in his frantic ramblings. He threads his fingers through Mesut’s sweat soaked hair and ruffles it, before leaning in and pressing his lips against the shell of his ear, whispering, “Even I could have told you that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much! Please leave a review :-)


	9. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closer to Fabzil with each day ;-)
> 
> Enjoy!

Mesut lies on his back during warm-up, the freshly cut grass tickling the nape of his neck. Fábio hovers above him, and presses forward onto the back of the German’s leg, stretching his hamstring. Mesut can feel Fábio’s hand on his knee, warm and solid and can’t seem to stay still. He involuntarily tenses as the hand slides to the inside of his thigh, and Fábio eases up immediately, apologizing.

“Sorry, am I overstretching you?” 

“Yeah,” Mesut shudders, mortified with himself, “Yeah, that’s it.”

Fábio apologizes again before pressing forward with renewed precaution, and Mesut closes his eyes and forces his mind somewhere else, where it should be.

So it’s back to the old drawing board again. Mesut stretches with Fábio during practice every day now, mostly so that they can discuss their plans in semi-privacy. Since Mesut is living with Sami again, and Andreia and Vitoria are back from Portugal, the only time the two footballers get to see each other is during practice. And even then, they are not completely alone, or safe from the prying eyes of nosy teammates. 

Not that Mesut can really blame the others for their curiosity. It must be strange to see him and Fábio—after a season long worth of bitchiness and bickering—suddenly inseparable as if they were best of friends. Still, Mesut is grateful that most of them simply roll their eyes and assume whatever they want, without voicing any of it. Because he really doesn’t have the patience and energy to deal with stuff like this. His reputation will just have to suffer, since there are more serious issues in need of resolving first.

Fábio must have realized it too, since it’s _his_ friends who make fun of them the most. And the Portuguese never seems to know how to respond—smiling sheepishly sometimes, or muttering a few weak curses in Portuguese, before blushing and apologizing to Mesut. 

And Mesut wonders whether he should feel more insulted that their teammates are getting the wrong idea, because Fábio is still _Fábio_ —stupid, impulsive Fábio who curses too much and loves too easily, who is simple-minded, painfully oblivious, but also irritatingly earnest when he needs to be. And maybe Mesut feels more okay with it than he should, because if he had known this was going to happen a month ago, he would have laughed himself to death. 

“You remember, don’t you?” Mesut says when Fábio switches to his other leg, “El Mister during the match against City. How he picked me over Ricky. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“He’s the manager,” Fábio responds easily, “Maybe it made sense to him. We won after all.”

“We won because of Karim, and Marcelo, and Ángel, and Cris, and everyone—not me. I missed two days of practice. I was sick. I knew I was going to be awful, and he knew too. But he still picked me.”

Fábio squeezes his knee sympathetically, but doesn’t deny any of it.

“Even if Ricky is leaving in the winter,” Mesut winces at the cloudless sky, “Shouldn’t he still play if—if there’s no one better? There has to be another reason why he’s not getting any minutes _at all_.”

“Maybe he pissed some important people off.” Mesut isn’t sure if Fábio is being sarcastic or just throwing out random ideas, because it’s Ricky they’re talking about—Ricky with the good will and integrity of a Brazilian Jesus—Who can be pissed off at him?

“El Mister would know,” Mesut muses, “El Mister, Cris, and Ricky. And maybe the captains too—or at least Iker and Sergio. They’re our best bet.”

“That’s a lot of windows to hide under at night.” Fábio laughs. 

Marcelo and Pepe jog past them in that moment and promptly begin to whistle and catcall in Portuguese. Marcelo even smacks Fábio hard on the ass before running off in hysterical laughter. Fábio yells after them in clear outrage, telling them to fuck off before they’re out of earshot.

“Sometimes, I can’t believe Marcelo’s our vice-captain,” the Portuguese defender mumbles, a blush creeping over his cheekbones. “Sorry about that.”

“What did they say?”

Fábio blushes even a deeper red, and Mesut couldn’t stifle a laugh this time. “You don’t want to know.”

~~

Both Mesut and Ricky get called up for the away match against Rayo Vallencano, but neither of them starts. Karim scores an early goal, which takes away some of the pressure, but Real is still struggling to find their form, to prove their place as the Spanish Champions. Mesut gets subbed on for Luka with 25 minutes left. He tries his best to have an impact, makes a few good passes and a couple of darting runs, even though they all amass to nothing. It’s just not his day. But he does win a penalty after getting clipped inside the box, which sadly, is probably his greatest contribution in the end.

Cris takes the penalty, and Cris scores with ease. The whistle blows shortly after, and they get the three points they came here for. But it doesn’t mean they played well, that they’re happy or proud.

But the night doesn’t end there because this match marks the last of Fábio’s four-match ban. And Marcelo and Pepe had been planning a celebration for some time now (or at least throughout the entire bus ride back). They drag everyone to a flashy, over-priced club that night, and drinks are on them, they say.

Mesut doesn’t feel like going at first—isn’t really in the mood for loud music, strobe lights, or colorful drinks with olives in them, for once—but then again, Cris will be there, and Ricky too, and also the captains. And with everyone together and low on inhibition, it’s probably the best opportunity he and Fábio will get in a long time to snuff out some information.

Although things never run as smoothly as planned, because once they enter the club, Mesut can’t actually get near Fábio to tell him any of this, before the Portuguese defender is pulled away by another teammate and gets more drinks shoved in his hands. And it makes sense considering Fábio is the reason for this wild night out (and really, he should be enjoying it), but by the end of an unproductive hour and a half, Fábio has enough alcohol in his system to render the man completely useless. 

Mesut fights the urge to stomp his feet in frustration.

And Fábio must have sensed his dismay because at that moment, he manages to slink away from under Álvaro’s arm, before taking Mesut by the hand and dragging him into the chaotic throng that is the dance floor. 

Mesut is completely horrified as Fábio zigzags them though the crowd of drunk, sweaty men and skimpily dressed women. He hears catcalls from his teammates as Fábio pulls him close by the hips. They’re not quite dancing because there’s not enough room, but they’re moving to the rhythm of the music, and Fábio has his arm around his waist, and Mesut has no choice but to cling onto his shoulders, because he’d rather be pressed flush against the Portuguese defender than touch some random sweaty stranger.

“Y-You’re drunk, aren’t you,” Mesut stutters as Fábio’s hand ventures a little lower than it should.

“Yeah,” Fábio slurs, breath hot against his ear, “Yeah, I am. Sorry, I can’t get away tonight—to help you with—you know. You might need to go on your own.”

“You dragged me out here to tell me that?” Mesut feels himself turning red, “I figured that out myself a long time ago!”

“No, no.” Fábio holds Mesut a little tighter, as if he’s apologizing for saying something stupid. And for God’s sake, he’s so damn _touchy_. “Wanted to tell you to go through the back door. Saw Cris sneaking out a minute ago.”

Mesut turns around to see the neon exit sign, only a few feet away now that Fábio has brought them to the other end of the dance floor. Maybe he’s not such a useless drunk after all.

The German midfielder nods and prepares to leave, but Fábio doesn’t let him go right away. “Wait, do you need me to do anything here?”

“Yeah…” Mesut takes a moment to think, “Make sure no one comes looking for me. Especially Sami. ” He cranes his neck above the crowd to make sure Sami isn’t actually staring right at them or something. Fortunately, he’s just at the bar talking to Luka and Ángel. “Distract him if you need to.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Fábio looks genuinely perplexed, and Mesut rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know. Dance with him,” he says noncommittally before darting off to the exit. “Good luck!”

~~

Mesut finds Cristiano in a shadowy corner of the parking lot—not with Ricky, but with Iker. The German ducks low among the maze of fancy cars, edging closer to his targeted teammates with stealth and quick feet. He rolls underneath the closest car to be within earshot, catching Cris and Iker in the middle of their conversation.

“—Don’t thank me,” Iker says, “I can’t guarantee anything. And besides, whatever decision he makes in the end, I doubt my words had any impact.”

“Still,” Cris hums pensively, “Thank you for listening to me.”

There’s a brief moment of silence as if Iker hadn’t expected such a placid reaction.

“I just want what’s best for the team,” the captain eventually adds, almost mechanically as if the notion has been engraved.

Cris laughs. “You must think I’m being selfish, then.”

“No. No, I don’t,” Iker laughs too. “A part of me agree with you—but as captain, you know I can’t just—”

“I’m not doing this on purpose.” Cris sighs. 

“I know you’re like this because of him.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“I know that too.”

Another stretch of silence hangs over the two, and Mesut, underneath the car, can see Iker shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

And it is the captain’s voice that breaks lull once again. “There’s a good chance he’ll play in the exhibition match against Millonarios.”

“Yeah, considering half of us isn’t even called up. Goes to show how much trust—” Cris’s tone is bitter, until he catches himself. “Sorry—I didn’t mean it like that—It’s just I wish—I could be on the pitch with him.”

Iker hums in acknowledgement. “It’s still a match we need to win. He’s still expected to do well.”

“But what if well isn’t enough anymore. What if this is the last chance he’s going to get? He’ll need to be spectacular and— _fuck_ —I wish I can be there with him.”

Mesut sees Iker maneuvering towards the Portuguese striker, probably to put a hand on his shoulder, or to show some other gesture of support. 

“Ricky knows what he needs to do. He’s a world-class player, and it’s all a matter of time before everyone else remembers that too. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much—” Iker reaches down to his pocket as his phone goes off. “I’m sorry. It’s Sergio…do you mind?” 

“No, go ahead.”

Iker takes the call, and after a series of annoyed huffs and remarks of disbelief, the Spanish captain hangs up, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Apparently, some of our teammates have had a few too many drinks.” His frown is evident in his voice. “I might need to—”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Cris says immediately, “If you need to go check on them, by all means.”

“I probably should.” Iker laughs, their conversation waning closer to its imminent end. “Are you going to be alright, though?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Iker mumbles a curt farewell before retreating in the direction of the club entrance. Cris stays, and Mesut can hear an audible sigh as the Portuguese striker rests his weight against the car. 

They stay like that for a while, with Cris leaning against the car, and Mesut underneath it. And the German midfielder decides that perhaps he should wait until Cris leaves too, because any attempt for escape would be too risky, now that Cris no longer has Iker’s company for distraction. 

But then, the car bleeps and unlocks, and both Cris and Mesut flinch from the sudden disturbance. Cris steps immediately away from the vehicle, and Mesut realizes that—despite the risks—he should really get out from underneath there, since the owner is probably approaching. 

Mesut very carefully rolls to the other side, just as he hears voices at a distance not too far away. A woman, clearly intoxicated, staggers across from the parking lot, giggling and getting all touchy with a rather exasperated man, the only force keeping her from falling flat on her face. And Mesut is glad that the man is too engrossed in his drunken companion to notice that someone is crawling out from underneath his car. 

The German crouches against the side of the vehicle once he completely emerges, and very carefully moves along the doors to stay out of sight. He manages to duck behind an adjacent car by the time the man opens the passenger door.

And he completely forgets about Cris (whom he assumed had left when the car first unlocked) until he backs into the body of the Portuguese. Cris spins Mesut around before the German could even process what was happening, and roughly pulls down his hood.

And Mesut feels his stomach drop, as he stares into the wary eyes of the Portuguese striker. Neither of them says anything, although their reactions couldn’t be more comically contrasting. Mesut doesn’t even attempt to hide his shock—his eyes wide and mouth gaping open—while Cris remains as calm as ever, expression dubious, but nonetheless, sharp and clinical. And they stay like that for the longest ten seconds Mesut has ever experienced in his life.

He bites the inside of his cheek to make sure this isn’t a bad dream. It isn’t.

But Cris leaves him without saying anything—no questions, no demand for an explanation—and, Mesut doesn’t quite know how to react to that. But either way, the reality of being caught soon sinks in, and Mesut wants to curse and kick at the wheel of the car next to him out of frustration. He doesn’t know what this all means, or if it will change everything with regards to their relationship. But the worst part of all is that he’ll have to tell Fábio how he fucked up, how he might have ruined everything they have set out to do, in just one night. 

But a vibration from his phone distracts him from his turmoil and self-deprecation, and he checks to find a message from Sami, which reads:

_Had enough for tonight. Leaving. Meet me by the car in 5 if you don’t want to find another ride back._

~~

Mesut doesn’t call Fábio until noon of the next day. He hears a groan on the other end, followed by a weak hello.

“Hi, are you hung-over?” The German couldn’t help but grin into the receiver.

“Fuck, yeah,” Fábio groans again, “I hate you.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You told me to dance with Sami.”

Mesut laughs. “I wasn’t serious. Were you that drunk to think I was?”

“He started looking for you, and I didn’t know what else to do,” Fábio says defensively, “And no, I wasn’t that drunk. Which is why I needed a few more shots before I can actually do it with a straight face.” 

“So what happened?”

“Nothing. Except he probably hates me. And now everyone thinks I’m a slutty drunk with a German fetish.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re laughing.”

“It’s really funny. But I’m also sorry.” Mesut tries his best to sound sincere. This would explain why Sami was in such a rush to leave last night.

“Yeah, yeah,” Fábio’s voice softens with a hint of a smile. “So did you find out anything?”

And Mesut doesn’t have the courage to tell Fábio what had happened just yet, so he sticks to the facts, answers the question as it is. “It’s Ricky. Cris and Iker pretty much confirmed it last night. And Ricky might start in the next match. He has to do well. We have to make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a review? :-D


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter because of an awkward break. The next will be longer! <3

Real Madrid takes on Millonarios, the champions of Colombia, in The Trofeo Bernabéu. Mourinho decided to rest some of his key players for this largely inconvenient exhibition match. Cris wasn’t called up, and neither was Iker, Xabi, Sergio, Pepe, Álvaro, Ángel, or Marcelo—a good half of the usual starting line-up. So the roster consisted of eager youngsters and players still with something to prove, and it’s no wonder that Millonarios is getting pummeled. Four goals already, and it isn’t even halftime.

Fábio feels a twinge of sympathy for the opposing goalkeeper who looks like he is on the verge of tears. 

Pipita slides a ball through inside for Mesut to chase, but a defender gets there first, knocking it out for a corner. Mesut takes it, curls the ball to the far post, and after a bounce or two, Ricky manages to nudge it in with his lower back. Goal number five for Real, and goal number two for Kaká, who had scored their opener. 

The team crowds around the Brazilian in congratulations, and for a fleeting moment, Mesut and Fábio lock eyes from across the pile of white shirts. And suddenly, something just clicked inside of their minds, and they didn’t even have to wait until half tome to decide the next step of their plan: Ricky needs a hat-trick.

The pace is much slower at the start of the second half, after Mou had made several changes during the break, introduced younger players with pace but little experience. Real created chances but failed to add to their tally, and Fábio knew that they were playing on borrowed time. It’s getting closer to the hour mark, so more changes will be made soon, and certainly, Fábio, Ricky, Mesut—or any combination of the three of them —will be switched off this time. 

So Fábio manages to draw a foul in the penalty box, nudges the ball just out of the keeper’s reach, and lets himself get in the way. He takes a tumble—grass stains streaking his white kit. His teammates soon gather around the ref, voicing their rightful objections. 

Ricky takes the penalty and scores his hat trick, beaming as the crowd cheers. He points to the sky and recites a quick prayer, just as the rest of the team circles around him. And when Fábio approaches to give his congratulatory hug, Ricky holds onto him a little longer, whispers into his ear in Brazilian Portuguese, “Thank you.”

Fábio flushes a deep red, doesn’t know why Ricky would be thanking him—unless Ricky knows he had done it for him, that they are doing everything they can for him. Fábio tries to feign innocence, although the stutter in his voice and the alarm in his eyes all scream guilty. “I-It wasn’t a dive—I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Ricky pulls away from the embrace, wrinkling his brows slightly but , but his smile remains. “I know. Still, I just wanted to thank you.” 

The Brazilian leaves, sprinting towards the center for kick-off. And, Fábio looks up at the crowd and wonders if Cris is watching.

~~

Whatever they managed with their half-thought-out plans must have worked somehow, because Mou is letting Ricky play again. He comes on for Mesut during halftime against Deportivo, and even starts in their Championship group match against Ajax. And Real is finally displaying the rightful confidence of the Spanish kings again—the goal drought ending as the floodgate opens. Cris scores a hat trick in both matches.

And it’s hard to believe that merely a week ago, they were the same players under the scrutiny of the press and the speculations of untimely departures. But now, with the critics silenced, the haters vanished, and the crowds cheering again, the royal whites seem unstoppable.

And everything would’ve been absolutely perfect if it weren’t for _Mesut_ ,with his downcast eyes and heavy sighs, because he has to make way in order for Ricky to play. It’s chipping at his confidence—Fábio can tell—from the way the German drags his feet across the pitch, and the look of frustration on his face every time a pass goes wayward or cross gets blocked out. 

It doesn’t take long for the media to start speculating again, stirring up rumors about how Mesut is unhappy, how his career will plummet now that his form is poor—with both Ricky and Luka eyeing the playmaker role—how both City and United are interested in him, and a move to England might be a smart idea.

And Fábio knows he shouldn’t be paying any attention to these baseless fabrications—just like how he had ignored for the most part those regarding Cris and Ricky. But for some reason, the bullshit they’re writing about Mesut makes him especially angry, because Mesut loves Real. He wants to stay here until he retires, and he and Fábio have been doing everything they can to keep the team together. The media this time couldn’t be more wrong.

But it doesn’t change the fact that the pressure is on Mesut now, and it’s his turn to prove his worth on the pitch—him and Ricky, one or the other, never both, it’s always been like that. And right now, it’s Mesut’s turn on the low end of the ebb and flow.

But despite Ricky’s good form, Mesut gets to start in their away match against Barcelona—which shows that El Mister still trusts him, even if Mesut doesn’t quite trust himself right now.

The German stays behind as they wait in the tunnel, taking a longer time to pray than he normally does. Fábio touches Mesut’s shoulder with his, before lining up with the rest of the team—a light-hearted gesture clearly meant to mask his concern.

“What’s the matter with you? Nervous or something.”

“Yeah.”

“What is this, your first Clásico?” the Portuguese snorts, and regrets it immediately, sounding harsher than he intended.

“No, but—Somehow—I don’t—I’m not—”

“Quit it.” Fábio tightens his jaw. “You’re playing tonight, and that’s that. You have the trust of the team, El Mister. We’re all counting on you. You know what you need to do.”

Mesut doesn’t say anything after that, stares straight ahead until it’s time for them to emerge from the tunnel. And Fábio feels guilty that he wasn’t able to say what he actually wanted to—that Mesut shouldn’t worry because he’ll do just fine. He has every right to start in this game as Ricky or Luka or anyone, because he’s an amazing player who deserves every opportunity he gets. And Fábio’s sorry that even though they’re in it together (whatever _it_ is), Mesut has to deal with the consequences alone, that he has to be the one to make way for Ricky, or feel guilty when Ricky doesn’t get to play. And it’s just ridiculous— _so_ ridiculous—but at the same time, it’s not. It’s football. It is how players reach their potentials, and how clubs become the best in the world. And it’s already hard enough when it’s _just_ football, and maybe this is why everything else should be left off the pitch. 

When you wear the crest, you are a footballer, and being human shouldn’t change any of that.

They’re flirting with this golden rule, and they’ve gone too far to turn back now. But it’s okay—it’s fine—even if they can only do so much while the rest is up to whimsical fate. Everything will be worth it in the end regardless of the outcome, because, at least, there will be no regrets. There can never be regret in trying.

But Fábio doesn’t tell Mesut any of this—doesn’t know how—so they stand silently side-by-side until the tunnel opens, just as the bright lights and the roaring of the crowd engulf them all.

~~

Fábio doesn’t get to play, watches from the bench instead with restless legs and sweaty palms.

Real draws Barcelona 2-2. Cris scores the opener from a cross from Karim, before Messi equalizes after a failed clearance. The Argentine nets again in the second half, curling a free kick over the wall and passed Iker’s reach. But Cris equalizes only minutes later, latching onto a through ball from Mesut and blasting it into the lower corner. After two goals each from their respective talismans, the two Spanish giants seem to be at a stalemate

The match ends in a draw, leaving both sides feeling neither disappointed nor proud. Cris doesn’t stay for any congratulatory hugs or exchanges of jerseys. He had injured his shoulder in the waning minutes of game and is rushed to physio right away. 

Fábio doesn’t follow Cris this time, pushes pass the crowds instead, until he reaches Mesut in the center of the pitch.

The midfielder is just standing there with a Barcelona jersey slung over his bare shoulder. His cheeks are flushed, and hair tousled and damp with sweat, and Fábio suddenly feels tongue-tied and clumsy. 

“You were great,” he says lamely and tries to shove his hands into his pockets, before realizing he has none sown into kit. 

“Really?” Mesut smiles, a hint of ease _finally_ in his voice. “I didn’t know you were watching.”

“Fuck.” Fábio smiles too, doesn’t even realize he how worried he had been until relief washes over. “You were fucking fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment :-)


	11. When the dam bursts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the end of the prewritten stuff. Enjoy the quick updates while you can! <3

“Okay, I just want everything on a diagram, or flowchart, or _something_. A lot has been happening, and it’s getting harder to keep track of. So if we get more organized then maybe—God damn it, Mesut! Are you even listening?”

“I am.” Mesut half-whines in defense, although he doesn’t tear his eyes away from the picture frames and little figurines adorning the shelves of Fábio’s living room. “Flowcharts and diagrams. Go on, I’m following.”

Fábio huffs in exasperation, before reluctantly rising from his desk. He had invited Mesut over on their day off so they can have a formal recap of everything that had happened—separate fact from speculation—before everyone leaves for World Cup qualifiers again. But Mesut, when he’s not sick or depressed, is way too ADD to sit still and focus like a normal human being. And apparently, sometime during the month plotting and secrecy, they have reached a level where Mesut thinks it’s perfectly okay to touch everything in Fabio’s house, flip through books and photo albums without even asking.

Fábio isn’t bothered by it that much, except when he’s actually trying to be productive with their time. But all Mesut seems to be interested in are old photos of the Portuguese when he was a teenager playing for Benfica and the national team. 

“Gimme that.” Fábio plucks a picture frame out of Mesut’s hands just as the German bursts out laughing.

“I don’t believe it. Is that really you?” Mesut grabs for the photo, but Fábio keeps it out of reach. “Let me look at it again.”

“No.” Fábio can feel his face getting warm. He was such a scrawny, awkward kid back then. “It’s embarrassing.”

“What’s there to be embarrassed about?” Mesut whines. “Everyone already knows you’re not a natural blonde.”

Fábio scowls as he returns the photo to the shelf, and prepares in his mind a scathing remark about Mesut’s eyes, or something. But the German kneels at his feet before he can find his words, and picks out an album labeled Portugal 2011. “Last one, I promise.”

Fábio rolls his eyes but agrees. “Fine. I just don’t see what’s so interesting.”

Mesut glares at him as he straightens. “Don’t worry. I won’t be looking for you.”

And it’s not that Mesut doesn’t keep his promise, but he definitely drags it out longer than necessary. They sit together on the living room sofa for what feels an hour, mulling through a year’s worth of national team photos.

“Who’s that?” Mesut points a training photo of Cris laughing, arm slung around the shoulder of a teammate.

“Miguel Veloso,” Fábio mumbles somewhat bored, “I already told you like five times.”

“He looks different with a beard. And with his hair like that,” Mesut comments, flipping the page, “He’s sure around Cris a lot.”

“He likes Cris.”

“The same way you like Cris?”

“Well, yeah,” Fábio grins, “A lot of people on the team like Cris, although they say I’m more obvious than others.”

Mesut snorts, and Fábio feels the need to defend himself. “There’s nothing wrong with that. He’s a hero in our country, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” The German rolled his eyes. “Is that why you came to Real Madrid? You had offers from England too, didn’t you? And Germany.”

“Spain’s right next to Portugal, so it’s not far from home. And I didn’t feel like learning English or German,” Fábio recites the trivial reasons the way he had trained himself to for countless interviews, but then he remembers he’s talking to Mesut—not a reporter, not the press. 

“I guess having Cris here helped. And Pepe, El Mister,” he continues, “Portugal isn’t like Spain or Germany. We are a small country with a small team, and we don’t have endless options and talent. It’s already hard enough to find that starting eleven—let alone substitutes, the bench. Ever since Cris became captain, it felt for the longest time that Portugal only had him. And that’s why he’s always so frustrated during international matches. Cristiano Ronaldo—the best footballer the world—stuck on a team with ten other guys who can’t keep up. We’re working hard to change that though. It’s not fair that Cris has to carry the hopes of an entire nation on his shoulders. And that’s why the Portuguese, we try to stick together, help each other. Because it’s the only way we can stand a chance, as a team.”

Mesut stares pensively at the album, fingers lightly scraping the plastic covering the photos. “Does everyone on the Portuguese National Team play for Spain or Portugal?” he asks.

“Nani plays for ManU, Miguel just got transferred to Kiev. Raul is in Turkey, and Bruno in Russia. Everyone else, pretty much, yeah.”

“What about him?” Mesut points to another photo.

“That’s João,” Fábio mumbles into the heel of his hand propping his head up. “He plays for Porto.”

“He’s in a lot of photos with you.”

Fábio grins. “I thought you weren’t looking for me.”

“You’re just hard to miss,” Mesut flushes and tries to defend himself, “Your hair, I mean. It looks like a hedgehog.” 

A weak comeback considering how sharp-tongued the German usually is, but Fábio doesn’t tease him any further.

“Cris looks so much happier when he’s with you guys,” Mesut says as he reaches the end of the album. He doesn’t close it right away.

“Well, this was before his rift with Real Madrid,” Fábio explains, “And this was Portugal, home—a country that loves Cris unconditionally. Spain can be harsh to him.”

“Yeah.” Mesut nods. He can probably relate because Spain isn’t his home either, even if everyone seems to love the German, wherever he went. “When did you get your first call-up?”

“2009. For the World Cup qualification playoff,” Fábio sighs, rubs at his left eye. “That was a tough year.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Cris was out injured for a few games, and we couldn’t win. Kept on drawing. We drew so many games home and away. Denmark ended up winning the group, and we were so close to not even qualifying for the play-off stage. And that’s when I got my first call up. The playoff against Bosnia. And if we lost, we wouldn’t have been in the World Cup.”

“Did you play both legs?”

“No, just the match at home, in Lisbon.” Fábio sinks into the cushions of the couch and runs a hand through his spiky-blond hair, “I came on as a substitute for Nani with 20 minutes left. We won both legs, but just barely, by one goal. And I think it was sometime between then and getting eliminated by Spain in the World Cup, that we realized we needed to do more for Cris. We can’t just let him take all the credit and blame and the weight of Portugal. We need to be a team.”

Mesut doesn’t say anything so Fábio feels obliged to compensate, even though he’s been the only one talking this entire time. “We’re a lot better about it now. We got to the semi-finals in the Euros as a team. We still got eliminated by Spain—but it’s okay I guess. Spain went on to become champions. There’s no shame in losing to the champions.”

“You lost to Germany too, in the group stages, remember?” Mesut grins, unpredictably alternating between obnoxious and actually bearable, and it takes Fábio by surprise.

“J-Just barely,” the Portuguese stutters, clearly insulted. It’s only been a three months since Euros had ended, and the wounds left behind are still fresh—definitely too soon to be making jokes about it. Fábio doesn’t mention how he had cried in the locker room after losing to Germany in their opening match, and Mou had comforted him, and said he was sure that Portugal would make it out of the Group of Death. And they did, although second to Germany. 

“One goal,” he recaps more for himself than for Mesut, “We lost by one goal.”

“Yeah, it could’ve gone either way,” the German agrees, but Fábio isn’t sure if he actually means it, or simply doesn’t want to throw oil onto the fire. “Do you remember during the match, you were marking Reus and—” 

“Who?”

“Marco Reus,” Mesut insists, “He’s a winger, blonde—”

“They’re all blonde.”

“I’m not blonde.”

“You’re not actually German,” Fábio mumbles with a touch of indignation, unsure if he actually wants to start an argument with Mesut. “You’re Turkish.”

“I’m both,” Mesut says frankly, before digressing, “I just think it’s funny. How we used to hate each other. I spent the entire match trying to avoid you.”

“Yeah,” Fábio grins deviously, “I spent the entire match trying to injure you and make it look like an accident. But I had to mark that Reus guy. I hoped Bruno would fall on your leg, or Pepe would take you out. But Pepe likes you too much to do it on purpose, so he said no.”

Mesut shoots him a glare, and the Portuguese laughs, before reaching over to ruffle the German’s hair. “I’m kidding—well, half-kidding—I wouldn’t want that now.”

“Quit it.” Mesut bats his hand away just as his fingers trace over the shell of the German’s ear. And Fábio can see a faint blush spreading across his teammate’s cheeks. “Does your brain even filter any of the things that come out of your mouth?”

“Nope.” Fábio shrugs. “Why did you think I got that four-match ban in the first place?”

“You should try it,” Mesut frowns, “And maybe than, you’ll only sound like an idiot half the time.”

“And you think too much,” Fábio answers easily. He doesn’t fall for Mesut’s tricks, or start an argument just so they can avoid something awkward (at least, for Mesut).

“What do you mean?”

“You think too much. You never say what’s actually on your mind, so you end up waiting too long, and then talking yourself out of it. You should just say what you mean without caring. It’s easy. “

Fábio must have pointed out something uncharacteristically perceptive because Mesut falls silent, his eyes returning to the long forgotten photo album. They stay like that for a long time—not speaking or moving—and Fábio wonders if he should apologize, even though he has no idea what he would be apologizing for. 

“How’s Cris’s shoulder?” Mesut eventually breaks the silence. “Will he be able to play against Russia?”

“I don’t know,” Fábio says, tilting his head towards the direction of his front porch. “But he lives right next door. We can just go over and ask.”

Mesut suddenly looks alarmed. “No, it’s fine. I don’t need to know.”

“But you want to know.” Fábio furrows his brows. “You asked.”

“I don’t want to bother him the day before World Cup qualifiers.”

“You won’t. And it’s qualifiers, not the fucking final. He won’t care. Come on, we can go together.”

“No, I can’t.” Mesut stands up abruptly, the album sliding off his lap and falling onto the carpet. He bends down to pick it up, mumbling a quick apology before setting the album on the sofa table. Fábio can tell that his hands are shaking.

“What’s the matter with you?” Fábio stands up as well. He thinks of how strange Mesut has been acting ever since the match against Millonarios. He had assumed it was because the German hasn’t been playing well, and had to make way for Ricky in the past few games. But he played well against Barcelona, didn’t he? Even assisted Cris. _Cris_. Has Mesut been avoiding Cris? 

“It’s late. Maybe I should go.”

“It’s only 5PM,” Fábio says in disbelief, “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Mesut reaches for his sweatshirt he had swung over the back of the sofa. “I need to go. Thank you for having me over.”

Mesut turns to leave, and Fábio—at a loss for words—stops the German the only way he can. He tackles his teammate, and they both tumble back down onto the couch.

“You’re lying,” Fábio growls as he wrestles Mesut, pinning him down with surprising ease. But then again, he has gravity on his side, and the German is probably too shell-shocked to retaliate right away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Mesut struggles underneath him, but Fábio is already straddling him by the waist, pinning his wrists on either side of his head. “This is not how you get people to talk!”

“This is how you do it in my house!” Fábio doesn’t quite know what he’s saying, very much in shock himself. He wonders how long Mesut would be mad at him after this.

“Get off of me!”

“Why don’t you want to see Cris?”

“None of you fucking business!” Mesut tries to free himself with renewed vigor, but to no avail. He grunts in frustration.

“It’s not fair.” Fábio tightens his grip on the German’s wrists, earning a nervous hiss. “I tell you everything. I trust you. It’s not fair.”

Mesut reluctantly meets his eyes. “Do you really tell me everything?”

“Everything you’ve asked for. Maybe more. I’ve never left you guessing.”

The German relaxes underneath him, his features softening—no longer angry, just sad—and Fábio doesn’t think this is any better. “What do you want to know?” 

“Did something happen between you and Cris?”

“Yeah, a lot.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Anywhere. The beginning.”’

Mesut shifts uncomfortably, and Fábio realizes he’ll need to guide his friend through this, somehow. “Are you and Cris still friends?”

“Yeah, we are. Just different now, I guess.” 

Mesut hesitates, and Fábio rubs circles with his thumb on the inside of the German’s wrist, urging him to continue. “I came to Madrid the summer of 2010,” Mesut begins again—a different approach, and Fábio can tell he’s circling around the real issue, trying to build confidence. He lets Mesut take his time; he has all night, if they need it.

“I heard a lot of things about Cris, that he’s a brilliant footballer, but a horrible person—selfish, volatile, you know, the usual. That’s what I expected when I came to Madrid, and I couldn’t have been more wrong. He’s an amazing player—that’s true—but he had been so good to me ever since the start, and I didn’t even know why. I barely spoke Spanish, and I didn’t understand half the stuff he would say, and he said so much. He tried his best to help me understand, but sometimes I could only guess at what he means. The Spanish and the Portuguese—they can be so friendly, so open, so _touchy_ —I never thought I could get used to that—”

Fábio laughs a little at that, his grip loosens around the German’s wrists. Mesut doesn’t try to struggle free, and Fábio doesn’t move his hands either.

“I never thought he would be like this—that we would be friends. And I worked hard because I thought—if I worked hard enough, El Mister would let me play alongside him. I memorized the runs he would make, how high he could jump—so I can always pick him out wherever he is, pass a perfect through ball—because I never see him happier than when he scores. And I wanted to see him happy, to be the one who makes him happy.”

Mesut pauses again, as if he needs another push to go on, and Fábio nods at him without saying anything else.

“I got to play because Ricky was injured, right at the beginning of the season. I barely had a chance to talk to him before he had to undergo surgery, and he didn’t come back for a long time. I didn’t know back then that it was because Ricky was gone that I was—needed.”

Fábio furrows his brows, wants to tell Mesut that it’s not true, that he’s special enough for Cris, the club, fans— _anyone_ —to like him just for him. But Mesut is still talking, and he doesn’t want to interrupt, knowing how much of a delicate balance they’re in right now

“I guess it was stupid of me to think I could just—I got what I wanted after all. I got El Mister’s approval, the team’s trust, the support of the fans, the playmaker role—and I should have stopped there, been grateful for what I have, wanted nothing more.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with—” Fábio couldn’t help himself. “—You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was too young and selfish—he already had people to love, who love him back, who mean so much more to him than I can imagine. I didn’t hate Ricky. It’s hard to hate _Ricky_ —but I wished Cris would stop loving him. I didn’t realize it was impossible, but now I know. Ricky, Portugal, you—the ones who can make him the happiest. All he will ever need.”

“God, what are you even saying,” Fábio shakes his head, “Me? I’m not—”

“The Portuguese, they stick together, help each other.” Mesut’s lips thin to a small smile. “You guys can bring him the Euro trophy, the World Cup. And Ricky—I guess he’s just special in his own way.”

Mesut breaks eye contact with Fábio and looks in the general direction of the other man's collarbone instead. Fábio tries to see into those dark eyes again, so he can tell Mesut that he’s wrong, and he shouldn’t feel this way because he’s so much more than what he gives himself credit for. Fábio waits, but he can’t seem to get Mesut to look back up again.

The German blinks a few times, and suddenly his lashes are wet. Fábio feels his throat constrict, as he watches tears gather at the corners of the Mesut’s eyes, rolling down his temple, into his hair. Mesut doesn’t make a sound the entire time, just silent tears falling.

“Fuck, _fuck_ —” Fábio breathes out, finally letting go of the other’s wrists. He cups Mesut’s cheeks and threads his fingers through long, dark locks—thumbs below his eyes to wipe tears away as quickly as they form. “Fuck, Mesut, don’t cry. It’s not true. Please don’t cry. Fuck—I’m sorry. Please, please don’t cry.”

Fábio can’t think straight with so much flooding his mind, so he repeats what he had said like insane ramblings, until Mesut looks back up at him, eyes glassy and rimmed red. He doesn’t sniffle, his features don’t contort, his breath doesn’t hitch, and Fábio thinks he’s such a beautiful crier it’s not even fair.

“Fuck, Mesut,” he whispers and presses his lips against the German’s forehead. He kisses his eyebrow, his temple, the corners of his eyes where tears are still falling. He kisses the angle of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, his jawline, his chin. He only hesitates when his lips are hovering above Mesut’s. 

Mesut doesn’t resist. His eyes are closed now, hands still on either side of his head where Fábio had left them. Fábio intertwines their fingers. “Fuck,” he whispers again, before kissing Mesut on the mouth. 

Mesut kisses him back, and that’s all the invitation he’ll ever need. And they stay like that for a long time, just kissing.

“I—Fábio—” Mesut mumbles against his lips, and the Portuguese withdraws immediately, distancing himself. 

“What?” Fábio stares down at him alarmed, and wonders if it was too good to be true after all. “What is it?”

“He saw me,” Mesut says, eyes wet but tears no longer falling, “Cris saw me that night in the parking lot at the club. He caught me and found out I had been listening. He left without saying anything, and we haven’t talked since then—A-And I didn’t tell you before because—I messed up. I was scared that—I might have ruined everything, and—”

“Mesut,” Fábio hushes him, sliding his palm against the curve of the German’s face, “I don’t care. From now on, I want you to know, you can tell me anything—anything you want. And we’ll deal with it, together.”

And with that, he leans in to kiss Mesut again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a review <3


	12. The emotional haul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this marks the end of the prewritten stuff. Bear with me a bit while I wrap things up (4-5 chapters more, I think)
> 
> Oh yeah, and bit of sex in the second half. So, warning.

“Have you ever slept with a teammate?”

Sami chokes on airplane food. 

“As in had sex,” Mesut elaborates, patting the older German on the back as he hacks out the last bit of chicken. 

“I know what you meant.” Sami puts up a hand. “Is this your way of telling me that you have?”

“What? No.” Mesut responds quickly, leaning his head away towards the window. “But I don’t know—Maybe—I’m thinking about it.”

A long pause follows, and Mesut doesn’t dare to look back at Sami. They don’t really talk about stuff like this anymore, since it almost always ends up in an argument. But now, with so much happening between Fábio, Cris, and Ricky, Mesut feels as if his head’s about to explode, and he just _needs_ someone to talk to. 

“Who is it?” Sami finally asks.

“I think you have an idea,” Mesut mumbles, pressing his forehead against the windowpane. 

“I have two. Which one?”

“Both, if I’m perfectly honest with myself.”

“Which is bothering more you right now?”

“The blonde one.” He tries to sound casual even though Fábio’s name has been ringing in his ears all day.

Silence.

“He started it. He kissed me first.” Mesut admits, finally meeting the other’s eyes. Sami’s expression is vague, and Mesut doesn’t know how to interpret it—sympathy, judgment, surprise, indifference—it could be anything. 

“Why did he kiss you?” Sami eventually asks, and Mesut feels more like a child than anything right now.

“I-I guess I was feeling lousy,” he mumbles, face turning red. He doesn’t tell Sami he had been crying over Cris; that’s just too embarrassing. “He was trying to make me feel better.”

“Okay. Then what?” 

“Nothing. We all left for World Cup qualifiers.”

Sami leans back into his seat and closes his eyes. “Might as well be for the best. Take some time to think about it.”

Mesut finds his response unnerving. Is Sami suggesting that they made a mistake? Is Fábio also mulling over the same things? Does he regret it? Mesut doesn’t know how he should behave—if this feeling of anxiety and restlessness is natural—or if he should just forget everything and focus on Germany for now, because that’s where he’ll be for the next two weeks.

“He’s married, you know?” Sami says, the voice of reason like always. “He has a kid.”

“I know.” Mesut answers him, although he doesn’t feel quite there, as if his words aren’t voluntary at all. “But these kinds of things, it happens all the time, right? It’s no big deal.”

“Well…” Sami trails off, never finishing his thought. And Mesut doesn’t press either; it’s probably not something he’d want to hear anyway. They don’t talk about it again for the rest of the flight, and Mesut falls asleep maybe an hour in. He doesn’t wake up until the plane rocks, as they land in in Germany.

~~

His birthday falls on the day before their match against Ireland. Mesut celebrated with family and friends before leaving, knowing he won’t have the time on the actual day. His teammates make the most of it for him though, taking him out to dinner to celebrate, although the night ends there since they play the next day. Nevertheless, Thomas slings an arm over his shoulder as they catch a cab, and promising a wild night out after their win against Ireland. And Mesut isn’t exactly sure if he wants to take him on that offer.

At night, he scrolls through the texts from family, friends, and Real Madrid teammates, wishing him a happy birthday. He doesn’t find one from Fábio, and wonders maybe he didn’t know, or he had forgotten, or was too busy training with Portugal, with Cris. Mesut doesn’t dwell on it for too long, thinking that maybe he had been too optimistic before. They won’t see each other for two weeks, and he wonders if anything will change during this time.

Business is as usual in Ireland; Germany wins 6-1, with Marco and Toni each scoring a brace, Miro scoring a goal to bring him even closer to Gerd Muller’s record, and Mesut scoring a penalty. They go out that night—eat, drink, and dance—and it isn’t until Mesut stumbles back to his hotel room, that he learns Portugal had lost their match against Russia, and Fábio had been injured. In the groin of all places.

“Fuck,” Mesut mutters to no one really, because Thomas, his roommate, had passed out the moment his head hit pillow. “Fuck. Damnit.”

Mesut thinks about calling Fábio but falls asleep before he actually brings himself to do so. His phone is still in his hand when the sun hits his face the next morning.

~~

Mesut doesn’t attempt to call Fábio again until after their game against Sweden, which they drew 4-4. Portugal drew in their match as well, 1-1 with Northern Ireland—a less than satisfactory end to World Cup qualifiers for both countries, it seems.

“Hey.” Fábio answers after the third ring.

“Idiot,” Mesut mumbles into the receiver as he flops onto his hotel bed, “How’s your groin?”

“Hurts like a motherfucker.” There’s a hint of a smile in Fábio’s voice. “I’ll be out for a months.”

“That’s not even…fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“That you—” Mesut feels his ears getting warm. “—You won’t get to play even though you served your ban already.”

“Will you miss me? Is that why?” Fábio laughs, his voice teasing but oddly gentle, which embarrasses Mesut even more.

So he tries to cover it up with exasperation. “Shut up, you’re such an idiot! Stretch properly from now on, for God’s sake.”

There’s a brief silence before Fábio speaks again, sounding sheepish. “I watched you play today.”

“You did?” Mesut props himself up on his elbow, surprised.

“Yeah, nice goal. Too bad it was cursed.”

“What?”

“Germany was up 3-0, and then you scored. And Sweden scores four times after that. Face it, your goal—it was cursed.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I am,” Fábio laughs, “But if it keeps on happening, remember I foresaw it first.”

“Yeah, got it,” Mesut smiles into the receiver. Normally he would’ve been insulted, but a part of him is relieved that Fábio is still joking around despite his injury and Portugal’s loss and draw. He had been worried, he supposes. 

“So tell me,” Fábio adds, “Why does your coach look like a sad dog all the time, even when you guys are winning?”

“Shut up,” Mesut laughs, because there’s some truth in that, “Don’t make fun of him. He’s one of the best.”

“Even better than El Mister?”

“Just as.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word on that.”

Another stretch of silence, and Mesut remembers why he never liked phone calls. The silences are always more awkward when it’s just voices on the line, nothing else to hide the fact that neither of them is speaking.

“How are you?” Mesut finally says, knowing that his question is too vague to convey any of the things on his mind right now. 

“I’m fine.” Fábio responds, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“How’s…Portugal.”

“Ah, you mean Cris.” Fábio sounds casual, normal, and Mesut wants to say, No I actually mean _Portugal—you, Cris, everyone included_. 

“It was his 100th cap after all,” Fábio is still taking, “and we wish we could’ve won, but we were unlucky at times so—it’s not the end of the world. We can still make up for it. Cris—he’s disappointed, but he’s handling it well for the team. People always say he’s not fit to be captain, but that’s not true. He’s a great captain—he doesn’t get the credit he deserves—”

Mesut listens and thinks Portugal has such an unusual dynamic, and maybe that’s why they were the wildcard of Euros, because you never know when they will burst into life. 

Fábio soon catches himself, and apologizes, “—Sorry, I’m just going on and on—are you still there?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“When’s your flight?”

“Noon. Tomorrow. You?”

“I’m back already. Portugal isn’t that far from Spain.”

“Right,” Mesut says just as Thomas pushed open the door.

“We’re playing cards in Bastian’s room. You should come.” Thomas is shouting because he has headphones on.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Mesut responds in swift German, making a gesture as if to shoo the other away.

“What?” Thomas yells again, and he’s not even looking at Mesut, changing his music on his Ipod instead. 

Mesut feels his last modicum of patience slipping away. 

“I’m on the phone, you idiot!” He yells back. “Turn off your music when you’re talking to other people!”

“Who are you on the phone with?” Thomas pulls his earbuds out.

“None of your business.” Mesut glares at him. “Now go. I’ll be there when I’m done.”

“Who’s that?” Fábio asks.

“Some idiot,” Mesut responds, the Spanish stumbling against his tongue. “My teammate. He wants to play cards.”

“Oh, you sound so sexy when you speak Spanish!” Thomas coos, pouncing onto Mesut’s bed before the other can even react. “Who is it? Cristiano Ronaldo?”

“No, fuck you!” Mesut hisses as he tries to kick Thomas off, who is currently all over him right now.

“I love you, Cristiano Ronaldo!” Thomas yells in broken, German-accented English, “But Mesut loves you most!”

Fábio laughs on the other end, and Mesut hasn’t felt this humiliated in a long time. “You should go,” the Portuguese says, “Seems like you’re friend is getting impatient.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Mesut mumbles into the receiver, all the while shielding himself from Thomas with a pillow, “I guess I’ll see you at practice—oh, wait—fuck, you won’t be at practice—I’ll—”

“I won’t. But you can still see me. If you want.” Fábio adds with a hint of optimism, and it makes Mesut wish he were back already.

“Yeah, I want to.” Mesut says, just as he lands a solid kick against Thomas’s midriff, earning a satisfying “oof.” 

“Okay, well, see you when you get back.” 

“Right. Bye.” He hangs up right before Thomas pounces on him again. 

“What the hell is wrong with you,” Mesut laments as he crawls out from underneath his hyperactive teammate.

“Forget about Ronaldo.” Thomas pokes him. “This is your last night in Germany. Spend some time with us.”

“It. Wasn’t. Ronaldo.” Mesut smacks Thomas in the face with his pillow.

~~

A good portion of the team received injuries during national call up, so no Álvaro, Pipita, Marcelo, Fábio, or Sergio during the first day of practice. Real Madrid has no wingbacks now, and Mourinho is furious. Practice felt more like punishment than anything.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Luka says to Mesut as they stretch together.

Ángel coughs into his hand, and Mesut flushes. He has still been deftly avoiding Cris, only sneaking the occasional fleeting glance, as the Portuguese striker warms up with Ricky. 

And apparently, even _Luka_ —who has only been here for a few months, and can barely speak two words in Spanish—is noticing something. Mesut feels as if he has hit rock bottom.

“It’s complicated, okay?” He mumbles before getting up, smoothing the wrinkles from his kit and ignoring looks of sympathy from both Luka and Ángel. “Don’t worry about it.”

~~

Mesut texts Fábio later that night to tell him he’s coming over. He gets there an hour later, and Andreia opens the door for him, which is completely the opposite of what he was expecting.

“Hi, Mesut.” Andreia smiles, her Portuguese accent much thicker than anyone he knows, “Fábio told me you were coming.”

“Oh?” Mesut tries his best to keep his eyes from bulging out of his skull.

“Yes. And I was just leaving.” She opens the door wider to reveal her little daughter, all bundled up in her fall jacket. A carry-on luggage is behind her.

“Oh.”

“We were supposed to all meet in Portugal.” Andreia kneels down to fix Vitoria’s scarf. “To watch Fábio play. And then he would return to Spain, and we would stay there longer for my aunt’s birthday. But then Fábio gets injured in Russia, so we decided to push our flight back. Stay here with him until his teammates return, so he wouldn’t be all alone.”

Mesut swallows, feeling something along the lines of guilt. Vitoria looks up at him, eyes large and unblinking, as if she’s staring straight into his soul.

“But now, we must go.” Andreia straightens before taking the handle of her luggage. A car is honking by the front gate, a relative probably. “Fábio is upstairs in the bedroom. Make sure he doesn’t move.”

“Is his injury serious?” 

“No,” Andreia laughs, “The doctor says he can walk around if he’s careful. But he’s never careful, so make sure he doesn’t hurt himself more.”

“Yeah.” Mesut manages a smile. “I got it.”

“Thank you,” Andreia nods politely as she makes her way passed Mesut and down the steps, Vitoria following close behind. “Hopefully, you can cheer him up. He’s been in a bad mood all day.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” 

Andreia thanks him again before bidding farewell, and Mesut closes the door quietly behind him after she and Vitoria are both out of sight. He sighs and tries to convince himself that everything is okay.

~~

“Hey,” Mesut says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey.” Fábio turns off the TV immediately. He’s sitting in the center of the bed, surrounded by mountains of pillows. He only has a pair of sweatpants on. 

The Portuguese defender tries to maneuver to the edge of the bed, wincing in the process, and Mesut is quick to step forward. “Don’t bother. I’ll come to you.”

“It’s really not that bad.” Fábio rubs absently at his inner thigh. “It’s been a week already. It’s getting better.”

“I was told to keep you from moving.”

“Oh, yeah?” Fábio grins, vacates a spot next to him. “I’ll stay in bed if you stay with me.”

“Fair enough.” Mesut nods as he rests a knee against the edge.

Fábio reaches and pulls on Mesut’s shirt until he’s bending low enough for their lips to meet. He kisses Mesut—more hungrily this time—pushes his jacket off of his shoulders. He yanks at Mesut’s arm until the German is half on top of him.

Mesut lets his hands wander and explore the subtle curves and dips of Fábio’s chest and abs, feeling vibrations through his lips whenever he finds a particularly sensitive spot. He stops at the waistband, unsure of whether to go on, but Fábio takes his hand and urges him to proceed, until Mesut’s palming him through the fabric of his pants.

Mesut breaks the kiss to stare at the Portuguese. “Are we really doing this?”

“If you want to, that is,” Fábio shtugs, a blush creeping to his cheeks. 

Mesut licks his lips in uncertainty. “You sure it’s okay?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Fábio stretches and grins. “Although I do appreciate you asking for my permission. Such a gentleman—”

“No, you idiot,” Mesut scowls, “I meant your injury.” Among other things.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Mesut rolls his eyes and attempts to distance himself, but Fábio clings onto him shamelessly. “Aw come on, Mesut,” he whines, “Please—just— _please_.” 

And before he knows it, Fábio is kissing him again, licking and nipping apologetically at his lips. Mesut sighs in defeat and palms the Portuguese a few more times before sliding his hand beneath the waistband. Fábio moans into his mouth.

Mesut jerks him off, takes note of the small noises Fábio makes, the spots that drives him wild. Fábio is still kissing him, fingers threading in his hair as he devours his mouth. And Mesut wonders why Fábio is so wound up tonight. Wasn’t his wife just here? Shouldn’t these kinds of things not happen when you’re married?

It doesn’t take long before Fábio comes all over his stomach and chest. The Portuguese finally breaks the kiss, head sinking into the pillow. He looks up at Mesut hazily, completely spent. 

“I’ll get you a towel,” Mesut says before doing so.

Mesut wipes Fábio clean and tucks him back into his sweatpants. He turns to drop the towel off the edge of the bed, but before the piece of cloth even hits the floor, Fábio is on him again, kissing at his neck.

“Already?” Mesut groans and tries to elbow the Portuguese away, “But we _just_ —”

“No,” Fábio laughs, pushing the German until he’s lying on his back. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh, I don’t know—” Mesut protests weakly as Fábio climbs on top of him. “Hey, you’re not supposed to move.”

Fábio winces slightly and tries his best to not use any of the muscles in his legs. “Not if I’m careful,” he smiles as he nestles between Mesut’s legs.

The German opens his mouth to protest, but Fábio muffles his words with another kiss. He slides his hands up Mesut’s shirt, fingers ghosting over chest to tease a nipple, and suddenly, Mesut forgets to care. 

Fábio sits up and undoes Mesut’s belt and jeans. He takes him in his hand and pumps a few times, grinning almost deviously as the German lets out an involuntary moan.

“Quit looking at me.” Mesut flushes, feeling more teased than he should be. “And get on with it.”

The Portuguese doesn’t respond, lowers his head until his breath is ghosting over the other’s evident erection.

“What are you—” Mesut is cut off by his own whimper as Fábio licks at the tip. “W-Wait.”

Fábio doesn’t pay him any attention, warps his lips around the head instead before taking in as much as he can in one swift motion. He starts to bop up and down, tongue swirling and throat closing every time he swallows, drawing out the most undignified sounds from Mesut.

“F-Fábio, slow down—St—ah—” Mesut manages as he threads his fingers through short blonde hair. This _can’t_ be the first time Fábio has done this, which raises more questions than Mesut wants to think about right now.

Fábio sucks him off in earnest, until Mesut feels nothing except for the tight, wet heat engulfing him. He tightens his grip on the other’s hair, hips jerking sporadically, and the Portuguese has to hold him down by the hips.

Fábio reaches into his boxers to play with his balls, and Mesut completely loses it. “Fuck,—I—I’m gonna—”

The Portuguese withdraws at that moment, shifts up Mesut’s body to kiss him again on the mouth. Mesut whines almost pitifully, but it doesn’t take long before Fábio takes his cock into his hand, continuing right where he had left off.

“You should see yourself,” Fábio whispers, hot against his ear, “Writhing and moaning like you want this so badly.”

Mesut bites his lips, couldn’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“Feels good right? When I suck you off. When I touch you. There’s so much more we can do.”

Fábio kisses Mesut at the corner of his mouth, cupping his face so he can’t turn away. “Fuck, I want to see the look on your face when you come.”

Mesut moans—eyes squeezed shut and entire body trembling—and he’s coming hard. Fábio lets him rides out his orgasm before reaching for the previously discarded towel. He finds a dry area and wipes him clean.

“I don’t understand what just happened.” Mesut pants, staring in disbelief at the ceiling as Fábio straightens him up. 

“I gave you the blowjob of your life, that’s what happened.” The bastard had the audacity laugh. He then proceeds to pull Mesut’s jeans all the way off, before peeling away his socks one by one.

“What are you doing?” Mesut lifts his head slightly. His body feels too much like jelly to do anything else. 

“Stay here tonight.” Fábio climbs his way up so he can lie face to face with the German. 

Mesut shifts uneasily as Fábio flops down next to him. “No, if I don’t go back, Sami will—”

“Who cares,” the Portuguese snorts, “You sleep with Sami every night.”

“I do not sleep _with_ Sami—” Mesut warns.

“You know what I mean. Stay. I have a surprise for you.”

Mesut thinks he has had enough surprises for one day. “What is it?”

“Reach into that top drawer. There’s this box—” 

Mesut sighs before doing so, blindly fumbling through the drawer until he feels something rectangular and takes the object out. “Chocolate?”

“Happy birthday!”

Mesut blinks. “You got me _chocolate_ for my birthday?”

“Yeah, from Russia.”

“My birthday was a week ago.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve just texted me.” Mesut feels his cheeks getting warm again as he fumbles with the box, until—“Did you _eat_ some of it?”

“I got tired of waiting for you.” 

“I can’t believe you—” Mesut starts as he turns around, and suddenly their faces are so close together, that the front of their hair is touching. Mesut feels as if something collapsed inside of him, the way his words are clogging his throat, and he doesn’t even remember what he had wanted to say in the first place.

Fábio is grinning at him, but his smile soon falters. “Is it really that big of a deal? I can get you new ones if you—”

“No—No, that’s not it.”

“Then, what’s the matter?” 

And Mesut thinks these kinds of things, they happen all the time. He and Fábio are just messing around; nothing serious. And it’s not Mesut’s the one with the wife, the daughter. None of this is his problem, so he shouldn’t have to deal with the emotional haul. He shouldn’t be the one feeling anything—

“Mesut, you okay?” The Portuguese furrows his brows and props himself up on his forearms. 

“Yeah.” Mesut shakes his head, snapping himself out of it. “It’s—nothing.”

“You sure?” Fábio persists. “Is it Sami? Is he honestly going to flip a shit if you—”

“No. It’s not Sami. He’s not—”

“Did something happen at practice? Was El Mister giving you a hard time?”

“No, will you just let me—”

“Cris. Are you thinking about Cris?”

“No, shut up!” Mesut is yelling before he even realizes. He brings a hand up, half-wanting to cover Fábio’s mouth, but the Portuguese snaps his jaw shut just in time. “Don’t talk—Don’t.”

Fábio looks at him with a mixture loss and uncertainty.

“It’s nothing.” Mesut repeats. “Fuck it. It’s nothing.”

He leans in to kiss Fábio first this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a review :-D


	13. You’re probably lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finishing this fic is so painful, ugh! Thanks for being patient with me while I wrap everything up. :')

The next two weeks pass with their usual ups and downs. Real Madrid wins comfortably in La Liga—2-0 against Celta Vigo and 5-0 against Mallorca—but their luck runs short in the Championships League, losing their first match to Dortmund away, despite Cris and Mesut combining beautifully to score the opener.

Fábio didn't travel to Germany with the rest of the team, staying home instead to nurse his groin injury. He watches the match on TV with his little daughter playing by his side, and her presence was the only thing keeping him from lashing out at the screen.

"Refs, man!" He sighs in exasperation when Xabi of all people is shown the yellow.

Vitoria diverts her attention momentarily from her blocks and stuffed animals. She looks at the TV curiously, and shakes her head with him.

~~

"Maybe Brazil."

"No."

"No?"

"You should play for a competitive league."

"Italy then."

"You deserve better than what they can pay you."

"It's not about the money."

"I know, but still."

"MLS."

"Damnit Ricky! This isn't even funny."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Fábio has no doubt that this is something he was never meant to hear, as he cowers behind the ornamental boulder in Cris's backyard. Cris and Ricky are standing by the Portuguese striker's luxurious pool, although it has seen little action recently, now that it's late October.

It's a funny story actually, how Fábio had ended up in this unpromising situation. Vitoria has remarkable lower body strength for a three-year-old girl, and Fábio couldn't have been more proud when she kicked her toy football well over their fence. And because rationality is for squares like Pepe and Mesut, Fábio decided to climb over the partition to retrieve the toy himself, rather than go knocking on Cristiano's door like any normal person.

Careful not to exacerbate his groin injury, the young left back mounted over the barrier and shimmied down Cristiano's ornamental boulder, before fishing Vitoria's football out of the pool.

"Go on inside for dinner, sweetie, before Mommy gets mad," Fábio said as he tossed the ball back to his own yard. "Daddy will only take a minute."

Fábio heard Vitoria's giggles and little, parting footsteps, as he contemplated the most efficient way to shimmy back up the boulder. But before he could even apply proper footing, he heard a sound from within the house and promptly dashed behind the ornament for cover. The glass doors to Cristiano's house slid open, and young defender felt his heart drop.

If Cris had been alone, Fábio would've jumped from his hiding spot, hoping to give the Portuguese captain a fright. But Cristiano was with Ricky—in the middle of a serious, private conversation—and this definitely thwarted any chances of Fábio getting a good laugh out of it.

So he sat silently behind the boulder and waited.

He and Mesut had agreed to be more careful with their meddling after the German had been caught, and Fábio had every intention to keep to his word. This was purely accidental and misfortunate, but Fábio does little to shield his senses from the intimate exchange.

"But I am thinking about it. Milan, at least. I want to play."

"You deserve to play."

Cris sounds calm, so much calmer than his heated exchange with Mou, or his exasperated dismissal with Irina. And it's the first time Fábio has heard any responses on Kaká possible transfer, coming from the Brazilian himself.

Ricky is thinking about Milan, and Ricky is determined to play—Fábio isn't sure how he feels about the prospect, but he knows this information is crucial. What can they do if Ricky himself would rather leave, despite their efforts in convincing the club? What can Cristiano do?

They talk a bit more about football and Brazil, before conversation appears to dwindle down. Fábio hears some discreet shuffling and is utterly horror-stricken when Ricky lets out a half-laugh, half-moan.

"Cris, Cris," he says, and Fábio flushes a deep red, covering his ears as he presses his forehead against his knees. This is definitely, _definitely_ not what he had signed up for.

"Come on." Cris's voice is a low, husky whisper, before the glass door slides open again, much to Fábio's immediate relief. The young defender waits an entire minute before crawling out from his hiding spot. The glass wall is transparent to the outside, but it's late enough at night for Fábio to remain obscured by the darkness. He wastes no time in mounting the decorative boulder. Groin injury be damned.

Fábio feels a substantial tug to his pants leg, just as he managed to firmly grip the top of the fence. He looks down horrified to see Cristiano's dog hanging by his jean cuffs. Marosca probably snuck out when Cris and Ricky went inside.

"Shit, no! _Stop_!" Fábio hisses desperately, shaking at his captured leg. Marosca has always been a friendly dog, and he knows Fábio well enough. He probably wants to play, although the Portuguese is hardly in a position to grant him his wishes.

"Damnit, fuck! Bad dog!" Fábio pushes at the golden retriever's head, and Marosca whines pitifully for an animal his size.

Fábio feels his grip loosen from the sweat at his palms, just as Marosca exerts another relentless tug. The young defender could only curse in indignation, as he staggers backwards into Cristiano's pool.

Cris and Ricky are both looking at him bemusedly by the time he emerges from the freezing water.

~~

Mesut comes over the next day, and Fábio wastes no time in confessing to his blunder. He had hoped that Mesut would feel better about his unfortunate incident with Cris—knowing Fábio had messed up too—but the German is hardly appreciative of his initiative and honesty.

"You're such an idiot!" Mesut seethes, the high points of his cheekbones flushed red. "I can't believe you got caught!"

"Hey, you got caught too!" Fábio protests. "And I told you this in good faith that you wouldn't make fun of me or get mad."

Mesut buries his face in his hands. "Was Cris mad? What did he say?"

"Well, I couldn't say I was retrieving Vitoria's ball when I don't even have the ball anymore."

"So?"

"So I told them a raccoon stole my Cheetos before jumping our fence, and I was trying to teach the little shit a lesson."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Mesut looks as if he might have an aneurysm.

"I'm sure they bought it." Fábio fervently defends, "Ricky even laughed."

Mesut huffs, shoving the Portuguese away when he tries to hug him.

"Come on," Fábio whines, "Cris believed me, I swear. I have fights with raccoons all the time, and I'm absurdly fond of Cheetos. Just as Pepe."

"Is that it? Is that why you're like this? Because you get into fights with raccoons, and by now, you're just as rabid as them?"

"Hey!" Fábio objects, caught out by how mean Mesut can be. "I got bit one time, and I had all my shots afterwards. I've been careful ever since!"

The German howls in frustration, before scooting as far away from the Portuguese as possible on the couch they share.

"Come on, Mesut," Fábio snivels, maneuvering himself closer. He wraps his arms around Mesut's waist, chin resting directly above his belt buckle.

"Get away from me," Mesut says—tone harsh, but lacking any real bite. Fábio can tell he doesn't really mean it. Or at least, he's not actively doing anything about it.

Fabio pushes up the hem of Mesut's shirt and kisses at the skin directly underneath. The German squirms under his touch, lips furling. "Stop it."

Mesut is trying his best not to smile, even as Fábio licks along the angle of his hip, nibbling at the edges of his navel. He eventually stops when Mesut tugs at his hair.

"I'm still mad at you," the German overtly declares.

Fábio flashes a cheeky grin. "How about I take extra good care of you today?"

The German rolls his eyes, hardly convinced, so Fábio decides to switch tactics.

"How about I tell you what I found out from my accidental snooping."

"You found out stuff?"

"Of course. You know I'd never come to you empty handed."

Mesut licks his lips apprehensively, before nodding. "Well?"

"They talked about where Ricky might go if he leaves. Maybe back to Milan. Cris seemed calm about it, though."

~~

Fábio doesn't fall short on his first promise either, when he finally takes Mesut to bed. He sucks at his nipples and teases at his rim, until Mesut is watery-eyed, slack-jawed, and begging to be touched. Fábio takes him in his hand and matches their rhythm perfectly. The German swears at he spills all over his stomach and chest.

Mesut lies motionless on his front after their second round—looking hazy and blissfully spent. He turns to Fábio just as the Portuguese plants a kiss to his shoulder.

"How do you know all of this?" Mesut asks rather innocently, and Fábio snickers against the German's skin. "What's so funny?"

"I just think it's cute. That you're obviously a virgin."

"Fuck you! I'm not!"

"Not anymore."

"Shut up!" Mesut hits him in the face with a pillow. "Answer my question."

"Hmm," Fábio muses, "TV. Internet. Porn."

"Bullshit. I watch that stuff as often as anyone, and I know you—you definitely—" Mesut makes a face, clearly uncomfortable, but he has ventured too far to retreat.

"Definitely what?"

"Had practice." Mesut flushes almost immediately.

"Well, you're not wrong," Fábio laughs, feeling quite content with himself. "I'm your first, aren't I? First guy, at least."

The German buries his face in the pillow, refusing to response.

"Hey, no one's complaining." Fábio threads his fingers into Mesut's hair. Mesut had cut it, so it's a lot shorter now. But Fábio likes it either way. "Do you want me to teach you that thing you like so much?"

It came out way too smug, so he probably deserved Mesut's reaction.

"No, fuck you!" The German props himself on his forearms, nose wrinkled in disgust. "So what are you then—some kind of man-slut?"

"No, I'm actually pretty tame."

"Compared to who?"

"Some national teammates." Fábio shrugs. "Ramos, maybe? People at Real are a lot more responsible. Maybe because they're all international stars with images to keep."

"So who—" Mesut grimaces, gesturing vaguely. "—With you?"

"Well, you remember João Moutinho."

Mesut nods.

"And well—Cris."

" _What_?" Mesut looks positively aghast—his expression a disparaging mixture of shock, jealousy, scandal, and outrage. It would've been funny if it weren't such a touchy subject.

"It was one time," Fábio quickly explains. "A long time ago, before he came to Madrid—And well, it wasn't very good."

" _What_?"

"As in—" Fábio winces at his poor word choice. "—He wasn't very nice back then, as he is now at least, as a person. I think Madrid, his captaincy, and being a dad changed him a lot. And Ricky too, I suppose, now that we know."

"So he basically just—and you—" Mesut looks at him in disbelief. His coherency have gone completely out the window, not that Fábio blames him.

"Yeah, it was just that one time. He made it pretty clear."

"And you were okay with that?"

Fábio feels a painful tug in his chest—no point in denying that. "I felt pretty awful at the time, but he did apologize, eventually, a lot. Why did you think he was so good to me when I first got here?"

"Because you're Portuguese, and you worshipped him." Mesut blinks at him, and Fábio can't help but laugh.

"Well, that's true, also."

"I—I don't believe this. Why would you—"

"Well, he's Cristiano Ronaldo." Fábio shrugs. "Even if he doesn't love in the same way, it's okay, because he's a hero in my country, and nothing can change that."

"No matter what he does?" Mesut says with a touch of indignation, and Fábio, for once, is quick to catch on.

"Hey, he doesn't do that anymore. And he's a good friend, to anyone. To you too."

Mesut shakes his head, and Fábio feels a twinge of regret. He shouldn't have expected Mesut to understand the dynamics and dysfunctions of the Portugal national team. It's different for Mesut and Germany, when everyone is more or less on the same playing field. They don't have a Cristiano Ronaldo.

"So is that all? Everyone?" Mesut asks just as Fábio was starting to get nervous.

"Yeah, even João was a long time ago. I haven't with anyone since moving here and getting married. Other than with you—now—of course."

Mesut doesn't say anything, clearly upset still.

"Oh, come on," Fábio protests. "You like Cris too. And don't tell me you never had a crush on some older national teammate when you were younger."

"I did," Mesut says dejectedly. "But it wasn't like this. Nothing ever happened."

"That was probably responsible. You're probably lucky."

Mesut turns to him finally, his eyes solemn and beautifully opaque. "So what is this now—with us?"

"An agreement between two responsible adults."

"Really? You sure know how to sweep someone off their feet."

"I like you a lot, I really do." Fábio sits up and pulls at Mesut's shoulder, preventing him from turning away, because clearly, the German chooses to misunderstand him once again. "I wouldn't have done this if I didn't care about you. This is something we both want, and that's the difference."

"Leave me alone." Mesut jerks free, and Fábio's heart actually aches at the thought of the German—not believing him, failing to see that this is something special.

"Come on, Mesut."

"Fuck off."

"Please, babe?"

"Don't call me that."

"Well, you asked," The Portuguese says tight-lipped, even though Mesut isn't even looking at him. "I'm sorry, but it's the truth. I can't change any of it except that—I really do like you. I'd never want to hurt you."

Mesut grumbles against his pillow, but it sounded like an accepting grumble. Fábio leans in to kiss at his shoulder blades.

"Are you still mad at me?"

"Not at you. I'm just—I don't know."

"Please don't be mad anymore."

Mesut turns around so that they're face to face, with Fábio hovering above. "I might reconsider if you do that thing again."

Fábio grins, wasting no time to grasp at the open invitation. He kisses Mesut on the mouth. "Don't have to ask me twice, babe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment :-)


	14. The ways we love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so originally I planned a whole dramatic chapter about Mesut leaving for England, but I think I've decided against it since it does nothing for the pacing and flow of the story (besides, I think I've packed enough angst and drama without including the end of last season from hell)
> 
> So bad news is one less chapter, but good news is I'll have an epilogue coming. Maybe I'll touch upon Mesut in England. Maybe I'll write more smut. Probably, yeah. 
> 
> Well, hope you enjoy my method of wrapping things up. I added some philosophy that I may or may not agree on, but hopefully I got my point across. Love to hear feedback, as always :-)

Mesut gets a text from Fábio just as he emerged from the locker room showers.

Fabio (5:35PM): _hey babe u free tonight?_

The German rolls his eyes. The pet name unfortunately stuck, after Mesut began finding it too exhausting to reprimand the Portuguese after every single instance. Fábio gladly interpreted it as acceptance.

Me (5:37PM): _going to eat with sergio and sami. after 7 ok?_

Fabio (5:38PM): _sure thing. meet at that park entrance around my house. i have a surprise for you ;)_

Mesut stares at the text for a long time, before shaking his head and replying.

Me (5:40PM): _don't expect me to do that thing, or anything stupid on government property. i have standards unlike u_

Fabio (5:41PM): _ofc babe_

~~

After dinner, Mesut drives to Fábio's street and pulls over at the curb by the park. Morbidly full from enchiladas, he rubs at his stomach as he steps out, searching for the Portuguese without leaving the general vicinity of his car. It's pitch black outside, save for the lone streetlight at the end of the block. The German squints into the darkness, and finds no one at first. He is just about text Fábio, when he hears footsteps from down the street. And it doesn't take long for him to realize that the person is not the Portuguese he was expecting.

"Surprise," Cris says as he steps into the path of Mesut's headlights.

"Wha—" The German looks at him, then to his phone, and back again. He feels his belly twist and is thankful the enchiladas did not end up on the curb. "I'm going to kill him," the German finally says, a quiver in his voice betraying him.

"Don't. He has nothing to do with it." Cris takes out a white iphone—undoubtedly Fábio's—from the back pocket of his jeans. "Nicked it from him this morning. He'll forgive me."

 _Because you're the hero of Portugal_ , Mesut thinks almost bitterly, _you can get away with anything when it comes to him_. But what he says instead, is a simple, "Why?"

"You've been avoiding me." Cris shrugs.

"You've been avoiding me too."

"So that's why I used his phone instead, to set up this meeting. I won't question the implications of your response, if it's of any consolation to you."

Mesut blushes profusely and he tries to cover it up with exasperation. "He should've password protect his phone. So dumb."

Cristiano's laugh is full of vibrancy and freedom, and Mesut can't help but be mesmerized by it. "He did. It's his birthday. He's a very naïve and simple boy."

For a long moment, they simply stand there in silence. Cris eventually ends their stalemate, rubbing uneasily at his neck. "Mind if we sit down and talk in your car, or something?"

They do exactly that, but the conversation aspect of it doesn't gain traction. They both spend long minutes staring blankly through Mesut's windshield, before the Portuguese striker finally fills the void.

"I know what you and Fábio have been up to, with regards to me and Ricky."

"Yeah?" Mesut isn't exactly surprised.

"It's very childish," Cristiano says in a peculiar way, and it isn't the sort of reprimand Mesut was expecting.

The German turns to him, confused.

"But I have also been childish," Cris adds, before ducking his head and smiling. "Fábio will be disappointed, wouldn't he? He thought he had fooled us with that raccoon story."

"He's an idiot," Mesut says begrudgingly, and the striker laughs.

"He has an excuse though. He's still young, and so are you. I don't." Cris buries his face in his hands, and he looks exhausted, _human_.

Mesut waits patiently for him to continue.

"I have reacted badly to a lot of things that have happened in the past few months," The Portuguese says, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "I owe several people apologies, and I thought I might as well start with you."

"Don't you mean the other way around?" Mesut laughs uncomfortably. "That we should be sorry for listening in on you and Ricky?"

"I know you meant well, and you were only trying to help." The striker shakes his head. "I shouldn't have allowed my feelings to affect my attitude on the pitch and my relationship with others. That night at the parking lot, I should have confronted you right away and settled the issue. It's my responsibility as a senior player and a friend. Instead I ran, and I let you down. For that, I'm sorry."

Mesut shifts in his seat, tongue-tied and ill at ease. Cristiano saves him from the burden of conversation.

"You and Kaká are the best maestros I've ever played with, and I'm honored to have shared at pitch with both of you at once. I wish things could have turned out differently, and I wish the club could see what I see. But Ricky has a right to play as much as he has a right to leave. And that goes for anyone." The Portuguese inhales deeply, looking resolutely at the darkness beyond. "He has made his decision to return to Milan."

"I'm sorry," Mesut says, his clumsy Spanish useless against his tongue.

Cris heaves a sigh. "Don't be sorry. It's what's best for him—his decision and his alone. I should have accepted it a long time ago."

"And what about you? Will you be alright?"

The Portuguese laughs, not unkindly, but it still makes Mesut withdraw, feeling childish and naïve. "I'll be fine. It's Italy, not the end. I still play for Real Madrid, and my loyalty is with my employers."

Mesut frowns, and it takes him a moment to even realize why. _Employers_. The word rings in his head. Not family, not home, but _employers_. This is the word Cristiano chose, and it felt wrong—so wrong, and Mesut doesn't even know why.

Cristiano must've caught it too, because he elaborates almost immediately. "Sometimes we forget, but clubs, cities, they're made of people—with their own expectations, needs, willingness to love and forgive, and tendencies to forget. And just like relationships between people, there are arguments, clashing views, and fallouts. What I'm trying to say is—I love Real Madrid, and I am infinitely grateful for the support of the club, the fans—but we shouldn't forget that they are human too. And we shouldn't idealize our relationships beyond what they are. Ricky wants to return to Milan, and the club is willing to let him go. That's that, and it doesn't get anymore civil."

Mesut swallows, feeling the air between them so thick and heavy with Cristiano's undeniable sadness, and he doesn't know what to do. Cristiano catches him and gives him a smile, as if to say it's okay—it's normal—and there's nothing to be done. Everything will be fine.

"For a long time," the Portuguese continues, "I wanted to tell you— _and_ Fábio—to be careful. To never end up in a situation like ours."

Mesut turns to the striker wide-eyed and gaping. "You _know_?"

"Everyone with eyes knows," Cris says dryly, before bursting into laughter at the German's animated reaction.

Mesut sinks into his seat, hoping the darkness would obscure the heat rising to his cheeks.

"But then I realized, I don't believe that. I don't regret anything—for whatever it's worth, our brief time together. I wouldn't change anything about it." Cristiano turns to the German, flashing a knowing smile. "And I think what you and Fábio have is something special."

Mesut hides his embarrassment with a snort. "He's such an idiot. I don't know why I bother."

Cris shakes his head, amused.

"His definition of marking someone is climbing on top of them. He swears at referees. He gets carded _all_ the time, and then banned, and then _injured_." Mesut pauses to breathe and hears Cristiano's subdued laughter to his side. All these words are just spilling out at the moment, and the German doesn't even attempt to stop. "He is a _child_. He gets into fights with inanimate objects and raccoons, and he's either pissed off or stupidly happy. Never anything in between. And his face is so dumb when he smiles—the way his eyes gets all squinty and—"

"Really?" The Portuguese arches a prominent brow. "You're making fun _his_ eyes?"

"Oh my god, shut up!" Mesut laughs, punching lightly at the striker's bicep.

They spend another hour in the car, just talking and catching up. And it feels like it's been forever since he and Cristiano spoke—like this, at least—the way good friends should. Mesut drives Cristiano back to his house at a quarter to nine. The Portuguese shuffles around in his pockets, before opening the door on the passenger side.

"Here, give this back for me, will you?" He drops Fábio's phone on Mesut's lap.

"Oh." Mesut looks at him surprised. "I wasn't planning to drop by or anything—"

"His wife and kid are still away." The striker shrugs. "He'd appreciate the visit, I'm sure."

Mesut frowns thinly, returning his gaze to the windshield. Cristiano must've sensed something was wrong and he decided to stay.

"I don't know—" Mesut eventually says. "How can someone with a wife and kid be okay with what we're doing?"

The German isn't sure what he expected out of Cris. Certainly the Portuguese has the same issue with Ricky—who is also married with children—but Ricky and Fábio, and Cris and Mesut, are completely different people. It's not a situation that can be easily applied.

"This is probably something you should talk about with him." Cristiano smiles sympathetically, squeezing Mesut's knee. He doesn't leave the car until Mesut promises he'd talk to Fábio the first chance he gets.

Cristiano is human—Mesut thinks as he pulls out of the striker's driveway—And he is entitled to his sins and mistakes. But Cris is still a good person, a good friend, and no one can convince the German otherwise. Mesut doesn't love him though, that much is certain. And it only took him two years and three months to know for sure.

~~

"Mesut! H-Hey!" Fábio looks genuinely surprised when he opens the door.

Mesut gives him the stink eye, before pushing past the Portuguese inside.

"I lost my phone," Fábio says with a touch of confusion and worry. "Did you text me or something? I couldn't respond."

"You idiot," the German takes out Fábio's missing possession and shoves it at his chest. "Cris took it from you this morning. I am so mad at you!"

"Well—there's nothing I could've done if he took it from me," Fábio stammers, nearly dropping his phone on the floor. "Why, though? What did he want?"

"To tell me—and eventually you, probably—that he and Ricky know what we've been up to."

"Oh," the Portuguese looks dejectedly at his socked toes. "Damn, I thought we hid it so well."

"No, we didn't, ugh!" Mesut buries his face in his hands, before regarding the Portuguese with renewed accusation. "I am _so_ mad at you," he repeats.

"We were in this together." Fábio looks briefly affronted. "You can't blame everything on me."

"I'm not." The German rolls his eyes. "But for some reason, regardless of whether it's you or me who messes up, I'm the one who has to deal with the bulk of the consequences. Cris stole your phone to trick _me_ into meeting with him, because of _your_ antics in his pool the other day."

"Shit, man." Fábio looks genuinely sorry. "Was it bad? What did he say?"

"No, it wasn't bad." Mesut sniffs, feeling somewhat better after getting Fábio all worked up. What can he say? Old habits die hard. "But it could've been bad."

Fábio smiles, relieved albeit still very much confused. "So what is it then? What happened?"

Mesut sighs and tells the Portuguese everything—from Ricky's imminent transfer to Cris's gradual acceptance—and they both solemnly agree to end their largely fruitless meddling.

~~

Later that night, Mesut remembers his promise to Cris and decides to confront Fábio as they lie in bed together—mind still hazy and words still loose from their post-sex high. He's on his side, and Fábio is hugging him from behind, arms around his waist and lips pressed to his neck.

"Hey, Fábio?" Mesut says tentatively, and the Portuguese hums in acknowledgement. "Do you ever feel guilty?"

"About what?" Fábio asks. "About this?"

"Yeah," the German nods, somewhat caught out by the other's confusion. He turns around to face the Portuguese. "You do realize you're cheating on your wife—don't you?"

Fábio smiles in a way that makes Mesut feel five years old. "Don't you worry about that." He presses a kiss to the German's forehead. "She knows."

"What?" Mesut shoves him away. "What do you mean she _knows_?"

Fábio looks at him with a touch of concern. "I told her. Since our first kiss."

"And she's okay with it?"

"Yeah."

Mesut scrambles up so that he is at the edge of the bed, wrapping the covers against his waist. "What are you guys, freaking swingers?"

" _No_." Fábio huffs in indigation. "We just love differently."

" _Differently_." Mesut repeats, the word tasting sour on his tongue. This isn't the first time Fábio used the word to describe the nature of his relationships—with his wife and Cristiano, with Benfica and Real Madrid. "You love differently. What does that even mean?"

Fábio sits up as well, covering himself with a pillow, as if hiding their nakedness—in a poor effort, might Mesut add—can take any awkwardness away from this conversation.

"I wanted to talk to you about it." The Portuguese scratches at his disheveled hair. "I've been putting it off—but there's probably never going to be a right time for something like this. I don't know. It's hard to explain."

"Well, try me." Mesut perhaps sounded harsher than he intended. Fábio presses his lips to a grim line.

"I am careful with the people I love," he begins, "But I don't think love can be limited to one person—not for me, at least. Andreia, she feels the same way, and that's one reason why we're so good for each other. We compromise, we sacrifice, and we're open with our needs and desires. Not a lot of people understand, but—this works. We're happy with the way we are."

"You're happy." Mesut looks at him warily. He tries to wrap his mind around this information, but he's failing. "She's happy for you."

"We don't do this to hurt each other," Fábio says earnestly. "And we don't do this thoughtlessly or often. I love Andreia, I love Cristiano, and I love you—that's all."

"You _love_ me." Mesut repeats. It doesn't even sound real. It's the first time Fábio has ever said it, and it has to be during a conversation like this. "Why would you love me?"

"Because," the Portuguese answers without a modicum of doubt, "You're beautiful, clever, funny—you stick up for your friends, and you work hard for everything you've achieved. And despite all that— _somehow_ —you don't even realize how special you are. And I want to be the one to remind you as often as I can."

Mesut looks at him, heart hammering and mind startlingly blank.

"I love you." The Portuguese smiles at his hesitation. "You don't have to say it back if you don't feel the same way—yet or ever. But I want you to try to understand, that I'm not a bad person for loving. I'm just different."

"And what if I can't love the same way?" Mesut feels his breath heavy and uneven.

"Then, it's okay. I don't expect you to. Everyone is different—unique."

"And what if I find someone too—who can't love this way either—and I'd have to choose. What if I leave?"

Fábio shakes his head. "I know it won't be fair to expect too much—the way I am, the way I love. If you find someone more right for you, I'll be sad at first, but I'll understand. I'll be happy for you as long as you're happy, and I'll remember fondly of all the time we spent together. I won't regret anything, and I'll never stop caring for you."

Mesut tightens his grip on the sheets, feeling both frustrated and touched, and undoubtedly lost.

Fábio looks at him dejectedly, as if he had let the German down. "It's strange, I know, but this is how I feel. I'm sorry if this isn't what you expected but—I've never been anything less than honest with you. I can't change this part of me."

"No," Mesut finally catches himself, realizing how judgmental he must've sounded, with or without meaning to. "It's just a lot to take in, and to get used to. I—I don't know."

The Portuguese is under no pretense that this is in any way ordinary. He waits for the German patiently, allowing him the time and space he needs.

Fábio is strangely complex, painfully honest, and full of surprises. He also doesn't change. He's been saying that a lot lately—ever since they've grown close—and Mesut supposes it's inevitable that he'd find out somehow, at the rate they were going. He sighs and wonders how many more surprises there will be? How many more nights will he find himself standing at the edge of the bed, covers around his waist, and his heart in his throat?

When he returns to Fábio's side, the Portuguese looks visibly relieved.

"I know I ask for a lot." Fábio kisses him on the lips. "I know it's hard to understand, but I can make it up to you. I can make it worth your time."

"Yeah, you better." Mesut smiles, and just like that, they're back to the way they were—lips locked, hands and legs intertwined.

As unconventional as they might be, Mesut is happy with Fábio, and he supposes it's what matters the most for now. They haven't been perfect, but nothing ever is, and he might not necessarily agree with Fábio view of love, but they're still young with all the time in the world to sort out their differences.

Mesut doesn't love easily, but this is probably the closest, _closest_ he has ever come to loving. He tells Fábio just that, and the Portuguese smiles against the curve of his shoulder, saying it's completely fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue and then it's a wrap up! Thanks so much for reading, and please leave a review :-)


	15. Epilogue: The distance isn't fair to cross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, some drama, smut, and fluff. This marks the end of an era. Thank you so much for reading! :')

2012-2013 is a year to forget, at least from their career's point of view. Real Madrid had their moments of brilliance, but they never really gained any traction since their disastrous beginning of the season. And luck sure wasn't on their side, from Iker's injury to Mourinho's never-ending feud with the press. They didn't necessarily implode—reaching second in La Liga and Copa del Rey is no easy feat—but in the world of football, where second place is worth shit, finishing a season without any trophies is just not acceptable for Real Madrid, the Spanish Kings.

Mourinho returned to Stamford Bridge, while Ricky to Milan. Pipita, Calleti, and Raul all signed with Napoli. Real then brought in the likes of Isco, Gareth Bale, and Illarramendi. But perhaps, the most shocking, most tragic moment of this mad shuffling was the night when Mesut announced his departure. The young German broke the hearts of millions, and Fábio's heart broke along with theirs.

Mesut at least had the courage and decency to tell Fábio before the official announcement. Their fight—and the ensuing exchange of hurtful words—was inevitable, however.

"I don't believe this." Fábio looked at the German in disbelief. "You can't possibly—You just _can't_!"

"It's the year before the World Cup" Mesut shook his head. "Germany is more important, at this point."

"So you're just going to leave without putting up a fight?" Fábio's words trembled treacherously. "You said wanted to retire at Real Madrid."

"We messed up, Fábio." Mesut's words were steady and clearly recited, and Fábio wanted nothing more than to punch the German in the face, even though he knew he could never hurt Mesut "Look at us. With all these new signings, someone has to make way. And even if I decide to stay—it's not worth it anymore. I'm not the only playmaker in Germany. I can't afford to be benched."

"The rest of us are still willing to fight."

"Then, it's your decision."

"So you're just gonna go to Arsenal now?" Fábio spat harshly. "And what? Say you're a Gunner, or some shit like that—point to their crest, and say how much you love them and want to retire with them?"

"I—" Mesut swallowed thickly, his calm façade slipping. Fábio had hurt him, and it felt both satisfying and god damn awful at the same time. "No one knows, Fábio—not Sami, not Iker. You're the only one I told, and I wasn't supposed to even do that. You can't tell anyone."

"When are you leaving?"

"Next week. The last day of the transfer window."

"You owe the fans. They love you. They don't deserve this."

"I know."

"And you said you loved Real Madrid."

"Things change, Fábio." Mesut looked away, as if he wanted to escape but knew better. "We—the club—we had a fallout. It happens, you know?"

"That's fucking bullshit!" Fábio shouted, his fists clenched and trembling by his side. Mesut's image was obscured through his unshed tears, and he hated it—hated how emotional he always gets—while all the German could do was shake his head and look at Fábio as if he's so damn fucking sorry, even though this was completely his choice. No one was making him leave. "You're so full of it. You love, you move on, and then, you deny that you've ever loved. Do you realize how messed up—how cruel and selfish you sound?"

Mesut looked at him stunned, before regaining enough composure to bite back—just as harsh and wounded. " _Fuck you_! I'm selfish? I'm cruel? What about you? They way you love, so _easily_ —not a hint of doubt or regret—so that nothing and no one can have you completely. You think that's fair?"

And once again, they were no longer talking about just clubs, and the Portuguese was growing immensely sick of this extended metaphor After all they've been through, they should at least be able to talk about their relationship without the feeling of walking on eggshells or dodging bullets.

"Is this it? Is this how you really feel? And you waited until now to tell me?" Fábio smiled depreciatingly, and Mesut buried his face in his hands, unable to respond. "What do you want me to do, Mesut? Leave Andreia? Because I—"

"No, Fábio, shut up!" The German interrupted him. "Clearly she doesn't have a problem with any of this. It's me. I don't know what I want—I never know what I fucking want!"

Mesut was on the verge of tears too, and he just looked so dejected, so miserable, that Fábio simply couldn't stay angry with him—no matter how terrible he felt. "I do love you," the Portuguese said softly after a long stretch of silence.

"I believe you," Mesut said and hesitated. "I'm so sorry."

~~

Mesut left for London at the end of the summer. He and Fábio considered being realistic and ending—whatever it is that they had—but they never could manage for more than a week at a time, despite their distance apart. They've had their ups and downs, and their schedules kept them busy, limiting most of their interactions over the phone. They've dabbled in phone sex a couple of times, and Fábio is willing to admit that their endeavor had been largely unsuccessful—at least, for its intended purpose. Fábio always seemed to draw out more laughs than moans from Mesut, but it had felt ridiculous to begin with, so it hardly mattered to the Portuguese. Even though he never went any more than a couple of days without hearing Mesut's voice, it doesn't take away from how incredible it is to finally see the German in person.

"It's so fucking cold in England," Fábio says as he steps into Mesut's apartment in London. His scarf is wrapped three times around his face, so only his eyes are showing. "How do people live like this?"

Mesut kisses him on the bridge of his nose, before sliding his icy-cold fingers beneath Fábio jacket and the layers of insulation underneath. He scratches lightly at the skin on his back.

"You little shit!" Fábio's shriek is embarrassingly high-pitched, and Mesut laughs against the shell of his ear.

"Stop being such a child. It's almost spring."

"It's my birthday, so why the hell am I visiting you and having to deal with this?" Fábio says begrudgingly as the German releases him long enough to remove his boots. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"You wanted to come, didn't you? You've never been to my place."

Mesut has a one-bedroom apartment with floor to ceiling windows that look out onto the London cityscape. Everything is clean and new—and the furniture simple and sparse—but Fábio supposes Mesut had other things to occupy his time during his months here.

"Well, you didn't tell me it would be so fucking cold," Fábio adds another item to his list of complaints, and the German rolls his eyes.

"Well, lucky for you, I've fully anticipated your incompetence to the cold. I got you a heavier coat, which you can consider as part one of your birthday present."

Fábio looks past Mesut's shoulder and finds a long, black puffy jacket against the back of the couch. "Is that it?"

"Yeah."

"It's so silly-looking."

"I know. I saw it and thought of you."

"It looks like something your coach would wear," Fábio says after closer inspection. "What if people see us?"

"Who cares?" The German shrugs. "I'm having dinner with an old friend."

"In this? People would think you're sleeping around with your coach."

" _Oh my god_ ," Mesut gapes, and Fábio can't help but laugh at his overreaction. "I'm taking away the birthday sex, if you keep this up."

"You have birthday sex planned?" Fábio is grinning stupidly, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"Of course." Mesut lets the Portuguese get all touchy for a minute or two, before pushing him away. "After dinner though."

"Can we skip to that now?" Fábio whines, leaning in to kiss the German on the neck, before sliding a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

"No, stop it." Mesut blocks his advances once more. "I have a reservation and everything, and I'm not going to have you or your libido ruining it."

Fábio falls onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "Ugh, who are you doing this for anyway? Me or you?"

Mesut frowns slightly, and Fábio regrets his words immediately, even though he had been joking.

"I'm sure it's perfect," he says, reaching for Mesut's hand and intertwining their fingers. He kisses at the dips of the German's knuckles. "It means a lot that you're putting so much thought into it, for me."

Mesut's expression seems to soften, and he lets Fábio pull him into his lap, to kiss him along his jawline, cheek, and mouth. Fábio sees part one of his birthday present out of the corner of his eye and momentarily breaks away. "Can I wear the coat during sex?"

Mesut howls in frustration before stepping away. "You can jerk yourself off in the bathroom instead!"

~~

By the time they finished with dinner, they could hardly keep their hands off of each other on the cab ride back. And once they reached the elevator, it took all of Fábio's willpower to keep himself from having his way with Mesut right then and there—even with a little old lady standing in between them.

"Bedroom?" Mesut says once they're inside, the door safely locked behind them, and Fábio doesn't need to be asked twice.

Shoes and jackets are left by the door, followed by a trail of clothing—socks, jeans, shirts, underwear—leading to the entrance of the bedroom. They're both completely naked by the time Mesut pushes Fábio backwards onto the bed.

Fábio takes a moment to inspect his surroundings. The bed is pristinely made, with stacks of pillows at the headboard. At the nightstand is a lone lamp, the only light source in the room, tinting everything within the walls a dim orange. Adjacent to the lamp are two bottles of water and a small container of lube in between. At the foot of the bed is a stack of towels.

"Well," Fábio arches a brow in response to Mesut's preparations. "You really spoil me rotten."

"I haven't even started yet," Mesut says as he hovers over the Portuguese, catching his lips. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to take care of you tonight."

Fábio pauses for a moment, stilling his lips against Mesut's, before pulling away. He looks straight into those determined eyes, before grinning in amusement. "You're going to take care of _me_ , tonight?"

Mesut frowns slightly, hardly appreciative of Fábio's lack of solemnity. "That's what I said, isn't it? What's so hard to believe?"

"Okay, okay," Fábio quickly backs off, biting back another smile. He slides back against the pillows at the headboard, before parting his legs invitingly. "Is this alright?"

Mesut thins his lips, drinking in the sight of exposed skin and wanton display. He leans in to kiss Fábio on the mouth again, before trailing licks and nibbles down his neck, across his chest, along his abdomen, until his lips are hovering over the Portuguese's quite obvious erection.

Mesut licks along the shaft and swirls his tongue over the head, before taking as much as he can into his mouth. He sucks Fábio in earnest, one hand against his thigh while the other at the base of his cock, smearing spit and pre-come.

Fábio does his best to still his hips, to let Mesut go at his own pace. His breath is growing increasingly ragged, and he threads his hand into Mesut's hair as a gentle warning.

Mesut eases off, although not without giving the head a parting kiss. "Lube," he says, eyes darting to the nightstand.

"Are you going to fuck me?" Fábio asks, reaching over for the bottle before handing it to the German.

"I could," Mesut says as he flicks open the cap with his thumb, squeezing a copious amount of the clear liquid onto his fingers. "But I have something better planned."

He then reaches behind him, and judging by his expression, Fábio can tell the exact moment that Mesut has breached himself.

"Oh, god," Fábio moans as Mesut makes these quiet little sounds, adamantly working to open himself up. He then leans down to lick sloppily at the head of Fábio's cock—to keep him hard during the preparation—as if the Portuguese would need any help in that department.

After a minute or two, the German finally withdraws. He pumps more lube into the palm of his hand, before rubbing it all over Fábio's cock. The Portuguese swallows a whimper and digs his nails into the skin of his palms in hopes of distracting himself. The last thing he wants is to disappoint Mesut by coming too soon.

Mesut straddles him once they are both properly slicked, before pressing their chests together and reaching back to align Fábio to his entrance. Mesut sinks down on him—inch by excruciating inch—squirming and whining the entire way until he's buried to the hilt.

He takes a moment to adjust, before starting to move, impaling himself in shallow, uneven thrusts.

"Fuck, Mesut." Fábio throws his head back, as Mesut starts to build momentum. He feels so warm, and tight, and completely overwhelming, that Fábio doesn't know how he had managed to last this long without the German's touch.

It's only been a few minutes, and he's embarrassingly close already, but Fábio is determined to not end up coming alone. He leans forward to catch a nipple between his lips, nibbling and teasing with teeth and tongue. Mesut arches his back and hisses in surprise.

Fábio runs a hand from his spine to his ass, before reaching for Mesut's neglected erection trapped between their bodies. He rubs his thumb over the head, smearing pre-come and teasing at the slit, before gently tugging at the rhythm Mesut has established.

"Fábio—I'm about to— _Oh_ —" Mesut tightens impossibly around the Portuguese, his come splashing against their stomachs. Fábio grips onto the German's hips and thrusts up, adamant on getting off while prolonging Mesut's high.

Mesut collapses against Fábio's chest, muffling his moans against the crook of his neck. It only takes two thrusts before the Portuguese is coming hard.

They spend a minute or two catching their breaths, before Fábio shifts their combined weight so that Mesut can lie comfortably by his side. He then leans in to kiss the German on the flushed points of his cheeks.

"I missed you so much during the season," Fábio says, dragging his lips to the German's ear, neck, and hairline.

"I missed you too." Mesut closes his eyes, allowing himself to be coddled for the remainder of the night.

"Come back to Spain," Fábio whines and draws out a heavy sigh from the German.

"You know I can't."

"What if I come to England, instead? United wanted me on loan, you know?"

"I swear I'll kick your ass if you sign with a rival team." Mesut looks pointedly at the Portuguese. "Besides, you belong in Spain. With Cristiano, Pepe."

"And do you belong here, in England?"

Mesut blinks at the ceiling, humming thoughtfully. "I don't know. Players come and go, and I guess I'm one of them. England is treating me well, there's no doubt about that—my teammates, the coach, the fans—they're nothing short of amazing. But I guess the most important thing is to play, for now, and do what I can for my team."

"People just love you no matter where you go, don't they?" Fábio nudges at his shoulder, and Mesut laughs at that, turning to the Portuguese so that their foreheads are almost touching.

"I don't know why, though. I'm such a little shit."

Fábio presses their lips together and smiles, drawing absent circles with his thumb, against the angle of Mesut's hip. "I think you know exactly why."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are loved! Thanks for reading! xx


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